


Lost Boys

by WL_Erkling



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drarry, F/M, M/M, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-09-26 13:16:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 39
Words: 50,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9898820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WL_Erkling/pseuds/WL_Erkling
Summary: Learning to live is the same for villains and heroes; it takes more than the absence of a Dark Lord to find yourself when you are lost. [Post-War Drarry]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Betalove: I can’t say “thank you” enough, OlivieBlake; you spent more time working through my insecurities than Harry’s.
> 
> Disclaimer: Characters, settings, and themes from the Harry Potter universe are property of J.K Rowling. I neither own, nor am making profit from the writing or sharing of this story.
> 
>  

* * *

 

 

 **“Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss in life is what dies inside us while we live.” –** _Norma Cousin_

 

* * *

 

There is nothing in the stillness of the night that comforts him at times like these. He wakes in a pool of sweat, droplets running across his chest, breath heaving in and out as if someone is pulling it from his lungs by pumping an iron fist—first one, then the other. He aches for the endlessness of it.

 

As he does every night, Harry throws his legs over the side of the bed. He reaches for his glasses and slips them over his ears. The thin wood of his wand, clutched in his fist throughout the night, is lit with a silent _Lumos_. Soft light plays across the table next to the bed as he reaches for the parchment there. He spares a moment to look behind him, seeing a splash of yellow fall across a sleeping face before turning back around.

 

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” The oath is whispered, the words roll easily off his sleep-deprived tongue. Though he isn’t in the castle, the map unfolds to show him the whereabouts and names of everyone who is. Deep emerald eyes glint off the light of his wand as he scans every corner and hidden passageway, including those that lead to Hogsmeade. When he feels that he’s looked at them all, and neither the given name nor chosen title are found, he taps the map, croaks, “Mischief managed,” and falls back against the sheets. There is no more light as his breath stutters through the night, uneven and waiting for morning.

 

++

 

After the war, Harry and Ginny lead a rather expected sort of life. They mourn loved ones, attending funerals and staying close to home. In the months that follow, they help in the restoration of Hogwarts. Harry throws much of the Black fortune at the castle, hoping that some of the best curse breakers, Unspeakables, and hidden talents of their time can band together, do whatever is necessary, and bring his home back to life.

 

Hogwarts was, after all, his home—not Grimmauld Place, even though he’d moved there shortly after his defeat of Voldemort. He’d certainly never called the Dursley residence home. Harry had never felt safe anywhere other than Hogwarts—and even that illusion had been ripped away from him. He exhausts himself and his resources trying to fix that. By the time the next term rolls around, he is proud to see the castle in all her glory, opening doors to both incoming and returning students. Minerva speaks with all the seventh years, asking if they will return and finish their schooling, take their NEWTs. Hermione eagerly accepts, and Ron declines in favor of acceptance into the Auror training program. Harry, however, declines both. He feels that he can’t serve anyone properly if he can’t get through one night without fighting off demons that no longer exist.

 

When Ginny moves in, Harry asks her to sleep in an adjoining bedroom. She looks at him as if he’s lost the plot, but he looks back shyly.

 

“It’s for your own safety, Gin.”

 

She sees the sincerity on his face and does as he asks—at first. Their relationship is passionate. They spend many days holed up in one of their rooms doing nothing but exploring the way a body can move against silk sheets. They sometimes fall asleep after an intense round of sex—but never for long. His paranoia prevents that from happening.

 

Until the night she brings the whiskey in. Harry shakes his head and says they don’t need it. Says that if she needs some liquid courage, she can help herself, but he will wait until morning. She smiles and offers him a shot off her belly button. Harry’s brows rise and his cock about jumps out of his trousers then and there. With various other encouragements, he’s soon pissed out of his mind. They have drunken, sloppy sex, and Ginny goes wild with her new-found control over Harry. She laughs at his inability to control the slurs from his slippery tongue. He cries as he buries himself in her, rutting so thoroughly that they’ve gouged the wall. She leaves red welts on his back from where her nails dig in, trying to keep him away, hold on, hold him closer.

 

Afterward, he rolls to the side and promptly falls asleep. Ginny wraps her freckled legs about him and sighs as she lays a cheek against his chest, feeling the warmth of him seep into the darkness of her. Everything is quiet until Harry begins seizing, thrashing, arms flailing outward. His legs go straight as a board before he curls in on himself. Harry whimpers for a couple of minutes. By this time, Ginny’s standing next to the bed, unsure how to help him. She’s running fingers through her hair, breathing shallowly and calling his name, as if that can call him back from wherever he’s gone.

 

“Harry, please. Wake up. Harry!” She kneels on the bed, shaking him. Ginny reaches over him to grab her wand. “Fuck. Please let this work. _Rennervate_!”

 

The stillness returns. She holds her breath as his body stops moving. Enraptured, she watches as waves of muscles tense, then release. Tense—then release. Ginny’s auburn hair flares around her, falling across Harry’s chest as she leans over him. She listens, trying to hold her own breath so she can listen for his. A sharp wheezing comes out of him. His chest bumps into her nose and a startled squeak comes out of her as she falls backward.

 

“Fuck, Ginny. That bloody hurts.” He rubs his chest, feeling the residual tingles of the spell as it works through him. Nerves fire rapidly in response to external commands. His heart beats steadily, if not a bit too loud. The sound echoes in his mouth. He rolls it around on his tongue before he turns back to his girlfriend. “Why the hell did you do that?”

 

“You wouldn’t wake up.”

 

He stares blankly at her. “Did you try shaking me? Calling my name? Anything before firing a spell at me?”

 

Her eyes go wide. “Harry, I’ve been trying to wake you up for nearly an hour. I shook you, slapped you, I screamed at you. Nothing I did worked, and—and—I panicked all right?” She’s shaking, biting at her nails and chewing the skin away from the nail beds. It is a nervous habit she’s yet to conquer and Harry knows it bothers her. He grabs her hands and holds them in his own. There is a slight flinch at the movement, but he ignores it.

 

“Gin, this is why you shouldn’t be next to me at night. You’re bound to get hurt. I’ve broken furniture. I’ve fallen off the bed. I’ve ended up with a broken finger,” he pauses, smirking. “Or two.” Ginny pulls back, slapping his exposed shoulder and not caring that he grunts as she does.

 

“Fuck you, Harry Potter. You’re not sleeping alone. I’m tired of this. If we’re together, I refuse to sleep in another room. We shag, but we can’t fall asleep next to each other? That’s ridiculous.” Her voice is steadily rising in octaves, becoming shriller as it does so. “You’ll just have to take a calming draught or dreamless sleep or something before bed. That’s all.” She nods, pleased with herself. It’s a declaration, not a question, and Harry is reminded so much of Molly Weasley that he keeps his mouth shut. There is no arguing with the Weasley matriarch. He is left to wonder how much of the mother is now in the daughter.


	2. Chapter 2

True to her word, Ginny now refuses to leave Harry’s bed. Although Harry’s nightmares continue, she ignores every pleading, begging moment in which Harry asks her to stay away. Most nights he puts up silencing spells so that he doesn’t wake her. This works often, but not enough. Between Harry’s waking to check the map and his shuddering, whimpering terrors, Ginny is losing a lot of sleep. At first, she takes naps here and there during the day when Harry is busy elsewhere. However, when he’s home all day, that becomes more difficult to manage.

 

“Go back to sleep, Harry,” Ginny mumbles.

 

“I’ll be done in a minute, Ginny. Sorry about the light.” He dims the _Lumos_ and walks over to the corner, scanning the map quickly. His usual sigh of relief is short-lived when Ginny’s shadow falls over him.

 

“Put the bloody map away and come back to bed. I don’t understand why you keep looking at that thing.”

 

He shies from her. “You wouldn’t understand.”

 

“I’m your girlfriend, Harry,” she says simply. “Explain it to me.”

 

He sighs. “We’ve been over this, Gin. I’ve tried.”

 

“Try again.” Her hands are on her hips now. The large quidditch shirt she wears gapes at the neck and falls open across one shoulder. She’s in just her knickers. He stares at her, all anger and fire. His head falls, one hand squeezing the back of his neck as he looks at the map in his hands.

 

“I-I need to know. I need to know for sure that he’s not there.” His voice gets smaller, less steady. “Gin, I need to know that he’s gone.” By this point, Harry is looking up at her, water in the depths of his eyes swirling like the bank of a mossy river.

 

“He’s dead, Harry. You’ve quite killed him.” He snorts. A tear falls down his cheek. She leans forward, tilts his head up and slips her tongue in his unsuspecting mouth; he pushes her away from him and her eyes narrow.

 

“Is that map more important than me, Harry?” He looks taken aback.

 

“Why would you ask that?” She goes to grab for it, but he moves too quickly.

 

“You hold on to that thing like it’s the most precious bit in your world. I should be a trifle more important than a bloody piece of parchment, Harry Potter!” She rails at him now, shoving with both palms at his chest. He staggers, but catches his footing.

 

“What the hell, Ginny?”

 

“I’ve tried, Harry. I’m still trying,” she insists. “But _you’re_ still stuck in the damned war!”

 

“That’s not fair and you bloody well know it!”

 

“Why the hell not, Harry?” She’s taken the map and tossed it aside. Another shove. He stands, chin up.

 

“Because I love you, you daft bint, and that isn’t about me being stuck in the war!” Harry is leaning over her, roaring the words with spittle flying. His face is red and rage fuels his actions.

 

He grabs her by the arms and walks them both toward the bed. Her eyes flutter with each step they take. When her knees hit the edge, he hefts upward and tosses her. Her legs tangle for a minute before she’s able to straighten everything out. She watches warily as he stalks toward her. Harry pauses for only a moment—just long enough to banish her clothes, then his own. As he climbs atop the mattress, she scoots back, glaring at him.

 

The heat in her eyes could scald a phoenix if it wasn’t careful. Harry hitches her leg up around his hip, not caring that she isn’t ready. Not caring that he has no lubrication. All he cares about is the fact that Ginny is his and she’s questioning that. He reaches down to take himself in hand, shoving forward when the tip of him finds her entrance.

 

Beneath him, Ginny arches upward. She is wet, but not ready. He slides against her and the tension in her body drives him. Rather than slow, open-mouthed kisses against her skin, Harry devours her. He bites and scrapes, sweat rolling across the both of them. She writhes beneath him, moaning each time he reaches the end of her and tries to go just a bit farther. Her nails drag down his back and bring blood to the surface. He’s a mess of purple and red by the time he feels it coming. He is too far gone to care that she’s not gotten much out of it. When it hits him, he bellows his claim to the morning and falls atop her like a stag in rut. Harry eventually rolls off to the side, throwing an arm across his eyes.

 

He hears her whisper, more to the shadows than to him, “You don’t know what love is, Harry Potter.” The words sting, anyway.

 

++

 

“He’s not there, he’s not there. You know he’s not there.” Harry continues to mumble to himself as he rolls his legs out of bed, grab the Marauder’s map and walks into the bathroom. His wand tip lights in a soft _Lumos_. “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” The words from Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs whirl away and ink spreads out to show the layout of Hogwarts. Soft green eyes scan incessantly. “Not there. Not there.” He uses the words as a mantra, trying to convince himself that he will never see it there again.

 

Just as his eyes glaze over the swiftly-moving form of Minerva McGonagall, Harry feels a sharp tug at his hair and the map is ripped from him. He spins around in the hold, his wand out and a stinging hex fires off before he has the chance to think who could be in the room with him.

 

“What the hell, Harry? That fucking hurt, you prat!” The voice is Ginny’s and his face falls as she lets him go. He crouches low to the floor, trying to make some sense of what’s just happened.

 

“Ginny?”

 

“Yes,” she bristles. “It’s me, you wanker.”

 

“Ginny? Why did you take the map?” Her face flickers with the sickly glow of candles reflecting off freckles and hair that hasn’t been washed in days.

 

“I took it because you’re out of bed. Our bed. _Again_. It’s one in the bloody morning and you’ve woken me up. _Again_.” He cocks his head to the side, waiting for more. This is nothing new. “When is this going to stop, Harry? Are you ever going to stop looking at this fucking map? He’s dead. DEAD, Harry!” She’s shouting now, screaming. “You killed him, so you should bloody well know the bastard died.” He pales, sinking lower. All he wants is the map back and his fingers twitch to get it. The fingers of his left hand begin tapping against the inside of his right arm. The longer he stares up at her, the harder it becomes. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. At first, it follows the unearthly rhythm of his heart. Then it becomes chaotic and he just starts tapping wildly. He makes to reach for the map and Ginny grins—a wild smile as her lips pull back in a snarl.

 

“Do you want this, Harry?” she taunts. He pauses, then nods. “Too fucking bad. You need to get over it. Get over yourself. We’ve got better things to do with our lives.” She holds it over the sink, points her wand at the parchment, and whispers, “ _Incendio_.” As the parchment begins to burn, Harry stares in disbelief. Flames lick up the sides, engulfing Minerva as she rounds the corner to the Transfiguration classroom and then she is _gone_. He can do nothing but sob as Ginny stares at him, orange flickers giving purchase to the demons lurking beneath her eyes.

 

“I can’t be here right now,” is all Harry manages to get out before he disapparates, leaving a flustered Ginny Weasley in his wake.

 

When he lands, he skids several feet from the rebuff of wards. He comes to a stop with his face in the dew. Replacing his glasses, which are now a foot away, Harry looks up to see gnarled trees angling down, beckoning him toward their welcoming arms. He stands, shaking himself free from the ground and his momentary disorientation. Aiming for Hogwarts is always silly business when the wards refuse direct apparition. He knows better than to try. He just doesn’t know precisely where they’ve spit him out.

 

What he does know is that the forest is not a place to be without one’s cloak. As the sun sets, Harry’s body turns against him. He does not trust any of the mushrooms or berries in a place such as this, so he doesn’t eat anything. There hasn’t been a running source of water since he’s found himself here and his throat is burning more with each step.

 

The sound of hooves and a grating screech come from his left. He stops to listen, trying to place the familiar noise. “Luna?” He follows the sound slowly, coming to a clearing where several adult thestrals laze about. There are a couple of foals jumping and frolicking- their screeching cries are the sounds he heard. He remembers the first time he’d seen a thestral with the young Luna Lovegood. Looking down at his tapping fingers, he regrets the memory. Despite his efforts, Luna was caught in the crossfire after the battle, when a rogue Death Eater broke through the battered wards of Hogwarts and slaughtered several of the Order before splinching himself trying to flee. Neville was devastated as he lay there with Luna cradled in his arms.

 

Harry squints his eyes, tapping rapidly and trying to breathe through the memories. That’s when he feels it—a soft, slimy glob of something on his wand hand. Immediately, his wand is out, eyes wide. To his surprise, there is a spindly colt standing before him, its tongue lapping at a tear that had fallen there. Harry laughs despite himself. He reaches out to touch the creature, but is nipped in return. He huffs, but watches as the little one tries to search his pockets.

 

“Ahh, so you knew her, then. I don’t have any livers, I’m afraid.” When it doesn’t find anything, it goes trotting back to the herd where it immediately snaps at another young thestral.

 

Harry turns away in search of water. There isn’t anything for him here. He’s sure that if he watches them long enough, they might lead him to some, but it could take too long and they might fly. He can’t levitate long enough to reach the fruit in the trees, let alone follow a herd of thestrals over what could end up being kilometers.

 

The moon is high and bright when he stops for the evening, weary and exhausted. He finds a tree with roots that grow up and out of the ground, large enough that he fits snugly beneath them. Once there, he curls up and tries to sleep. It doesn’t last long. The constant calls and movement of the forest creatures keep him awake. For hours, he lays there listening to them; it is a comforting sort of symphony.

 

As the sun rises and puts the moon to rest, Harry crawls out and stretches. His lips are too dry. They crack and bleed in one spot. He tries to speak, but can’t, so he feels trudging forward is his only option. The farther in he moves, the less familiar any of the forest looks. He continues like this for what feels like weeks, more delirious as time passes. His legs drop out from beneath him and, of less sound mind than when he’d come, he tries to crawl forward. At one point, he tries to apparate. Thankfully, he does not splinch himself, but instead moves backward an hour’s walk without knowing anything of it.

 

Harry Potter is in the Forbidden Forest for two days, three hours, and forty-two minutes before Firenze finds him. The centaur comes across the body thinking that he’s found a Death Eater who’s crawled out of the shadows and died. Instead, he sees the face of someone he knows quite well. With the reluctant help of several centaurs Firenze hunts with, he makes a litter and they roll the unconscious Harry onto it. Together, they carry him to the edge of the forest. Firenze, alone, carefully walks out and toward the hut of Hogwarts’ groundskeeper, Hagrid.

 

“I’ll jes’ be a minute,” comes the voice from inside the hut. As the door swings open, Hagrid’s face registers concern to see Firenze. He quickly ducks through the doorway, grabbing his cloak, and steps out to meet him. “Well hello, Firenze. Didn’t think I’d be seein’ you anytime soon.”

 

“Hello, Hagrid.” The centaur dips his head in greeting. “Harry Potter was found in the forest. He should not have been wandering alone.” Hagrid’s face turns purple at the announcement.

 

“Well where is ‘e? Is ‘e okay? Is ‘e hurt? Blimey, if tha’ boy’s gon’ and hurt ‘imself, I’ll jes’ have to—”

 

“Hagrid. The boy is alive. I cannot say that he is well. He is at the edge of the forest waiting for you. Be sure that he does not come back. The forest is not as forgiving as it once was.”

 

“Not tha’ it’s ever been, mind ye.” Firenze tilts his head again at this and strides past Harry’s limp body into the fog of the morning.

 

“Harry? Harry, ye daft boy. Are yeh alrigh’? You can’t do this to me again.” His eyes water a bit as he lifts the smaller man in his arms, overwhelmed with memories of the last time he’d done so.


	3. Chapter 3

“Bloody hell,” Harry mutters when he wakes. “I feel like I just went ten rounds with a rogue bludger.”

 

“Mr. Potter, I will not tolerate that sort of language in my infirmary.”

 

He freezes in disbelief. “Madam Pomfrey?”

 

“Yes, Mr. Potter. I’m afraid so.” A hand reaches in, tugs the curtain back, and waves of light fall over Harry’s bed. He lifts a hand to try and rub it out of his eyes, but he isn’t managing very well.

 

“How did I end up here?”

 

“I was hoping that you could tell us that.”

 

“Us?” He trips on the word.

 

“Yes, Mr. Potter. Us.” Minerva’s tone is as sharp as he remembers. He winces. “Hagrid practically ran with you up to the castle, beat on poor Poppy’s door until she came out in her nightgown, and gave her a fright by shoving your dehydrated rag of a body in her face.” The look is pointed. Harry stares at his lap. Tap-tap.

 

“I’m so sorry, Madam Pomfrey. I didn’t ask—”

 

“Never mind what you did or did not ask. You were unconscious, so there’s no bother with that. How did you end up in the forest?”

 

“Uh, well, um…” He runs his right hand through his hair, the left tapping relentlessly on his thigh. “I don’t know.”

 

“That’s not good enough, Mr. Potter.” Minerva’s eyes soften as she sits on the edge of the bed. “I realize that things haven’t been easy for you, but you have to let someone in. Mrs. Granger-Weasley tells me that you haven’t been returning her owls.”

 

“You talked to Hermione?” He pales, balking at the thought.

 

“Yes, I did. She did not feel it best for herself to come over at present, so she sent someone else that you might be more comfortable with.” Harry is confused. He stares at her, head tilted. Tap-tap, tap-tap-taptaptap.

 

“Who did she send? I can’t talk to Ron right now.” TAPTAPTAPTAPTAP. His leg is practically thrumming with the force of his jitters. She places her hand atop his.

 

“No, Mr. Potter,” she says gently. “It isn’t the _young_ Mr. Weasley.” That gives him pause. “In fact, she sent his father.” She turns back toward the door. “Poppy, if you would send him in please?”

 

A tall man wearing a faded brown suit walks around the corner. Various patches adorn the fabric and Harry smiles at the awkward man as he shirks around the healer, nodding a polite greeting. He removes his hat and holds it in his hands, fingers running along the brim anxiously as he walks up to Harry’s bed.

 

“Hello Harry.” They stare at one another. When McGonagall feels that they aren’t going to hex one another in her infirmary, she stands and leaves the room.

 

“Mr. Weasley.”

 

“Arthur, Harry. Call me Arthur.”

 

“Arthur.” Harry tips his head awkwardly in greeting.

 

“Harry, what happened? Molly and I were so worried when Hagrid sent his owl.”

 

“I’m sorry.” The tapping is softer, but Harry doesn’t look up at Arthur as he speaks. “Gin and I… She just… We had an argument. It’s always an argument, isn’t it?” He laughs, but the sound is empty, hollow. Arthur sits on the edge of the bed, hat in his lap.

 

“Harry, you and Ginny are fighting quite often. It’s not healthy for either one of you.” Arthur’s fingers punch out a dip in the top of his hat. “I haven’t seen you in a couple of months. When we see Ginny, she’s… she’s just not the same.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Do you? Harry, you’re not the same, either.”

 

“How can I be?” He barks the words, louder than he’s meant to. At a concerned look from Poppy, he tries to lower his voice. “How can I ever be the same? I watched so many people die. They died for _me_. They died because _I_ didn’t. They died because I _wanted_ to live. They died because…” He’s wringing the blanket between his clenched fingers now. “Because… because I couldn’t do it better.”

 

“Harry, my dear son. You can’t think any of that.”

 

“It’s true!”

 

“None of that is true. You are belittling every one of their deaths by thinking that. You betray their fight by saying that their choice to die meant nothing!”

 

“And my choice to live?”

 

“You had to live,” he says, voice clipped. “You needed to defeat him so that the rest of us could live. I’m sorry that it took so much of your life in return.” He tries to lay a hand on Harry’s nearby calf for comfort, but the young man recoils instantly. Arthur looks aghast at the reaction, but sighs and looks at Harry intensely—really _looks_ at him. “Maybe you should take a break for a bit. Maybe Ginny should come back home.”

 

“Arthur, I—”

 

“Think about it, Harry. For now, let’s get you back home.”

 

“Home?” The concept seems unfamiliar to him. “How long have I been here?”

 

“You’ve been in the infirmary for three days. If Ginny told Molly the truth, you were gone for two before that.”

 

“Fuck,” he breathes.

 

Arthur does not comment on his choice of words. The pity in his eyes is enough. Harry has stopped tapping by this point. His fingers are still beside his leg as if they’d lost the will to fight. He nods, shifts his weight enough to get his legs on the edge of the bed and tries to stand. Just as he does so, his legs turn to snakes beneath him and the floor comes up all too quickly.

 

“Bloody hell,” he gasps, “what happened to me?”

 

“You’ve lost a lot of strength, Harry. Let me help you.” When Arthur reaches out for him, Harry again tries to skirt away from the man’s touch. Seeing as though he isn’t going to get off the floor without Arthur’s help or the indignity of a levitation spell, Harry allows Arthur to slip an arm under his shoulder and lift. Together, they get his jeans and shirt back on. Poppy puts up a fuss about him not having any shoes, so she loans him a pair of slippers. He turns bright red as Arthur slips them on, but the older man has the decency not to comment on his new footwear. As Harry stands, Arthur transfigures the slippers into a basic pair of boots and Harry gives a muted smile in return.

 

Rather than risk upsetting Harry’s frail system with apparition, Poppy offers the use of her personal Floo. They walk slowly into her quarters, where both Harry and Arthur thank her. Stepping into the flames, Arthur calls out “Grimmauld Place.”

 

Harry stumbles into the lounge, followed immediately by Arthur.

 

“I see you’ve found him, then.” Ginny is lying on a nearby couch, a tub of chocolate swirl ice cream on her stomach. She has a spoon shoved in her mouth and is contentedly lapping at it like a cat.

 

“Ginny, is that all you can say? You haven’t seen Harry for nearly a week and he’s had quite the rough go of it. Mostly due to your actions, if I recall correctly.” Arthur glares at her, leaning over to try and help Harry up. At the snort from Ginny, Harry flinches. Arthur watches her as he stands there, hunched over, and she does nothing but continue eating. “Come on, Harry. Let’s get you to bed.” Struggling with the limp weight, they somehow manage to get up the stairs.

 

“No, not that one.” Harry’s hand slides against the door and pushes away.

 

“This is your bedroom, is it not?” Arthur looks to him with confusion on his face.

 

“No. S’hers.”

 

“Where do you want to go, Harry?”

 

“That one.” He is fading fast. The pointing finger droops and falls.

 

“All right, then.” Arthur shifts Harry’s weight and reaches for the doorknob of the room Harry asks for. “In you go.”

 

“This was his room.” It’s as if Harry needed to say that very thing, at that very moment.

 

“I know.” Arthur nods sadly.

 

“I miss him.”

 

“I know, son. Let’s get you in bed.”

 

Harry falls out of Arthur’s arms across the bed. The older man tugs off the transfigured slippers and tosses them aside. Next, he reaches for Harry’s glasses. These are carefully put on the bedside table. Harry is drifting in and out of sleep, mumbling about Sirius and Hedwig and other things better remembered in dreams.


	4. Chapter 4

Hours are spent in Sirius’s room, staring out the window. Harry says nothing. He occasionally eats, but even that amounts to little more than toast or biscuits. On the odd occasion he takes a shower, Harry _Scourgifies_ his clothing and shrugs them back on. The rest of the time, he sits in filth, surrounded by filth.

 

“Filthy blood traitor whore is desecrating my couch! How could that disgusting son of mine let our house fall to the hands of a half-blood. A half-blood!” Her shrieks of outrage waft in and out as he sits there, watching birds flit to and from a nearby nest. He can feel the thrum of his headache in his eyes. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Or is that his heartbeat? He looks down. His finger drums it out, no matter what it is. Tap-tap.

 

An agitated snarl greets Walburga Black by mid-day. “Wreaaaaaaaagh. Woman! Would you cease that incessant blithering? The dear lad does not need to listen to that dried out husk you call a tongue wagging all bloody day.” This seems to infuriate her more and, rather than go on about Ginny doing whatever it is Ginny now does during the day, she screams across the room at him.

 

“Orion. How _dare_ you! This is my house and you are both disgraces to the noble and Most Ancient House of Black.” She huffs, turning away in her portrait. If she wants to, she can visit one of her other frames, like the one on the downstairs wall with a permanent sticking charm, or perhaps the one in the attic. Instead, she wars with the portrait of her late husband. They never visit one another’s frames—oh no, that is indecent. Rather, Harry listens as they squall and argue over his inheritance of the Black estate, subsequent moving into Grimmauld Place, and Ginny’s current inhabitance there. “A Weasley, Orion! Even you can see the filth beneath that ginger fringe. It doesn’t matter that the stupid bint hasn’t visited a bath in nearly a week.” Harry shudders at this. His own habits are not much better, but the last time he’d passed Ginny in the hall, her hair was stuck together in clumps and she reeked of last week’s curry.

 

Perhaps he shouldn’t be so hard on Ginny. Several nights, he wakes to find her curled alongside him, arms wrapped around his sweating body. She clings to him as if she needs his very breath to live. In the mornings—if they are lucky enough to make it to one without a nightmare rending them apart— Harry watches as Ginny twitches and seeks out her vials. It’s at this point that he notices the bags no longer hold up the luggage of her eyes and her collarbones seem to jut toward him in the night—silent reminders of why he cannot sleep. Each morning. Ginny claws her way toward a fresh vial and, for a few hours at least, manages to keep her body functioning.

 

He allows this. He allows this because she doesn’t bother him during the day. He allows this because he doesn’t mind her draining his coffers, even if she uses every last galleon. He allows this because she seems to need it. She seems to need those few moments of peace after ingesting the potion before her body begins its countdown toward the next. At first, he thinks their use is casual. Just a morning pick-me-up. What he fails to realize is that she is so far gone that she can’t care if she wanted to—if, somewhere deep inside, there is cause for Ginny to care about anything.

 

++

 

Harry doesn’t remember falling asleep. All he can concentrate on is the arm slowly curling over his waist and the foul stench of alcohol slamming his foggy thoughts toward alertness. He slides from beneath her, the sweat across his chest allowing her arm to drop heavily to the bed. She huffs indignantly.

 

“Harry, come back to bed.” She pouts.

 

“Where have you been? You smell foul.”

 

“Wha’chu mean, Harry?” she slurs. “Come back to bed.” She reaches for him then. On hands and knees, the position unbalances her and she falls forward awkwardly onto her face. Harry rushes forward to right her, rolling her flailing body onto her side so that she doesn’t suffocate in the blanket.

 

“Ginny. Answer me. Where have you been?” As he looks down, blown pupils greet him. Her jaw hinges open and he smells the alcohol again. There is something else, though. He leans forward. Her bra is missing and she reeks of sex. “Ginny, were you with another man?”

 

“Piss off.” Her hand reaches up and shoves at his where it holds her upright. She falls backward.

 

“Ginevra Weasley. You tell me right now if you’ve been shagging someone else!” Harry’s fingers shake as he stands hovering over the end of his bed.

 

“I said you can bloody piss off, _Harry bloody Potter_.” As she says this, she has the gall to stick her tongue out at him.

 

“That’s it. You don’t get to do this to us. To me.” Fury resounds in the room. “This is his bed. This is Sirius’s bed. He was my godfather, Ginny. You don’t get to bring someone else _here_!” His words aren’t making too much sense to her muddled brain and she squints up at him. She just hears the tapping of his fingers, the incessant tapping before it goes still. Harry drops to his knees; that’s when she feels it.

 

“Ha-Harry? What are you doing, Harry?” She scrambles to the edge of the bed. Sobered up some, Ginny kneels in front of the brunette and tenuously reaches out. “Harry you have to control this!” The bedside lamp is skittering across the table, nearly at the edge. Just as she is about to touch him, it topples over and shatters across the floor. Harry grinds his teeth together and lets out a howl. “Stop it, Harry.” Ginny is practically whining now. The ground is shaking, even though they’re on the second floor. They can both feel the reverberations throughout the floorboards and everything around them. Dust that hasn’t been touched in years migrates to new colonies while spiders flee to higher ground.

 

“Fuck.” Harry lets out a grunt and collapses fully on the ground, hands splayed out before him. “You can’t be here.”  He hasn’t lost control like this in a very long time.

 

“What the hell was that?” she demands. “What do you mean I can’t be here? I live here!”

 

“No, you don’t. Not anymore.” He looks up at her then to see the fire Molly Weasley kept hidden, stoked for rare times when she needed to light up the backside of one of her children. It’s that fire Ginny holds, coiled and ready.

 

“I live here,” she says again. “You and I live here together, Harry.”

 

“Ginny, you need to leave.”

 

“Fuck you, you pathetic arse.”

 

“Me? You have the bollocks to call _me_ an arse when you come home smelling like the very definition?”

 

She scowls at him then, pulling her wand from the floor where it fell. A stinging hex flies at him and he catches it in the thigh, not quite believing her temerity. He stands.

 

“Really, Ginny? Get the hell out of my house! _Expulso_!” Ginny flies backward into the door, her arms flinging upward as they wrap around the frame. She slides slowly downward, but manages to keep hold of her wand. As Harry stalks toward her, she uses her favorite spell: a Bat-Bogey hex. This one he knows too well. He sees the short flick of her wand and puts up a _Protego_. In retaliation, Harry sends a _Confundus_ charm toward her, hoping it might slow her reactions. She catches it, but seems to shake it off quickly.

 

Ginny hefts herself to her feet, using the door frame as a tether and hauling with her upper body. Once standing, the full weight of her unhappiness hits Harry then. He sees it in the dull strands of hair clinging to the nape of her neck and the dirt beneath her fingernails. He sees it in the anger fairly seeping from her pores as she lifts her wand again. He sees it most, perhaps, in the way her eyes hold none of the recognition or warmth they used to hold for him. The only thing left in Ginny Weasley is blame. She wants to blame this life on someone and he is the perfect target.

 

Ginny pounces on him. It’s easy to tackle him to the ground, unsteady as he is. “Don’t you love me, Harry?” she is unsure whether she’s asking or begging. “Don’t I mean anything to you? Did I ever mean anything to you?” Each word, each sentence is punctuated with a thud to his chest, a corresponding slap of skin that shakes him. “Is this all you can do?” He stares up at her blankly, unable to form a response.

 

Ginny levels her wand at Harry, then speaks the word clearly, though he does not hear it. All he can hear is the rush of blood to his head and the steady tap-tap. Tap-tap. Then there is nothing.


	5. Chapter 5

“Aurors! Open up!” He knocks heavily, but no one answers. He sighs, wishing he were at home with a glass of Firewhisky and the newest tome Theo’d sent from his travels in Italy. “If you don’t open up in about thirty seconds, I’m going to blast your door in. Auror or not, I’m coming in!” He listens closely, ear cocked toward the door, but there is nothing. It’s odd, considering the Patronus they’d gotten earlier. “Fuck this,” he mutters. “ _Expulso_.”

 

He steps back, watching as the door crashes open, swinging swiftly back at him. Rather than wait for it to latch shut again, the Auror catches it, wand out, and walks through. A _Protego_ shield is up before one foot lands inside. Once there, he glances around, but sees no one.

 

“Auror inside. Anyone here?”

 

Nothing.

 

He goes to scan the room, but a small clinking sound catches his attention. It’s from upstairs. He re-casts his shield charm, stronger this time—but what he sees when he attains the landing, he is wholly unprepared for.

 

“Potter?” Lying on the floor near the bed is Harry Potter, who for all intents and purposes looks to be unconscious. Sniffling turns him around, but he keeps his wand trained on Harry. “Weaselette?” His eyes move back and forth between the two. “What the fuck happened here?” He moves his wand, as she is the more alert.

 

Ginny is huddled against the wall behind the door. Her outstretched hand has knocked over a vial of something; its contents leak onto the hardwood floor. She’s sobbing quietly into her knees with her wand clutched tightly between them. He approaches slowly.

 

“Weaselette.” He says it firmer this time, but she does not hear him. Her eyes are locked on Harry’s body. “Ginny.” Nothing. “Ginevra Weasley.” There she is. Wild-eyed, like a cornered wolf, Ginny stares up at him. She doesn’t turn her wand on him, for which he is grateful. “Ginny, can I have your wand, please?” She looks down at the slender piece of wood. As if it burns, she throws it from her. He leans down and picks it up, placing it in a pocket of his robe. “Thank you, Ginny. I need to see if Harry is all right. Are you going to stay still?” As soon as he moves toward Harry, she screeches and lunges at him.

 

“Don’t you _dare_ touch him!”

 

“ _Petrificus Totalus_!” Her eyes are half-closed and a tear slips out as it hits her. He catches the stiff body as she falls, laying her out on the rug next to Harry. “Fuck. What happened to the pair of you?” He casts a diagnostic charm. When the prone man’s vitals come back as alive but erratic, he panics. “Why is it always chaos with you, Potter?” he mutters.

 

“ _Expecto Patronum_.” His wand produces a sleek raven. As he speaks to the ethereal creature, it stares at him blankly. “Kingsley, Potter is injured. I’m taking him to Mungo’s. Ginny Weasley is in a body-bind in Grimmauld. Come get her and find out what the hell happened here.” He takes a breath to steady himself. “Go now.” Kneeling to stare at Harry, he casts a lightening charm, then lifts the unconscious man in his arms. He feels the distinct pull of apparition tug at his belly and they are gone.

 

“Auror coming in. I need a bed right now!” As a healer rushes up, he stares her down. “I have no idea what he was hit with.”

 

“Is that Harry Potter?”

 

“Does it matter who I’m bringing in? Get me a bed, woman!”

 

She blinks. “Uh, yes sir.” The short healer runs off to see what room is available, pointing him toward one down the hall. Draco hobbles in that direction, depositing Harry’s body, only to be swarmed by healers a moment later.

 

“Sir,” one says, “you need to leave the room.”

 

He’s not sure what compels him to argue. “This is an open Auror investigation. I need to ensure his safety and I will not be leaving the room.”         

 

“But sir, we need to take his clothes off and check him for spells and—”

 

“I don’t care what the fuck you do with him,” he growls. “Get on with it and stop wasting your bloody time yapping at me!” His arms are crossed now as he leans back in the corner. Rather than let on that he’s cast several protection charms on the room and on his charge, Draco stays silent and unobtrusive. He lets them work and waits.

 

An hour later, they have Harry stable. A healer pulls Draco aside and informs him that it could be hours or days before he wakes up.

 

“He _will_ wake up, though, won’t he?”

 

“Yes. All of his functions are normal. He was just hit with a particularly botched Diffindo spell. You said the caster was under the influence?”

 

“Yes,” he grumbles, not wanting to tell this healer everything about the case. He might have to put her under a restrictive speaking charm later.

 

“Well, he has a new scar to show for it, but whomever did the casting thankfully didn’t get it right.”

 

“Can you heal the scar?”

 

“It will take complicated spellwork, and we need his permission to do some of it. We have to wait until he wakes up. Are you going to be staying with him?”

 

“At least until he wakes, yes.” Draco sighs, feeling his throat close a little as that bottle of Firewhisky walks farther and farther away. “I have to question him as soon as he wakes and I can’t well have you lot botching his memories any more than they are.”

 

“All right,” she agrees. “We’ll be in periodically to check on him. Let us know if anything changes in the meantime.” He nods and watches as she leaves. The unyielding chair next to the bed, even when transfigured, allows for little comfort.


	6. Chapter 6

“Have you eaten anything today, Draco?”

 

The blond, several stray hairs across his eyes, snores as his body rouses. Calm, slate eyes open to stare at none other than Kingsley Shacklebolt. The only word he can manage is, “Fuck.” The other man chuckles. “What time is it?”

 

“Cast your own Tempus charm, Malfoy.” Draco ignores him, checks his watch, then wipes the sleep from his face vigorously. His wand never leaves the clutch of index finger and pinky. Several times, he runs his fingers through his hair, casually tossing it to the side, only to muss it and do it again. His once absurd, but now comforting ritual complete, he looks over at Kingsley.

 

“Why are you here?”

 

“It’s been two days. They’re waking him from the induced coma.”

 

“And?”

 

“And they wanted me to be here when he woke.”

 

Draco huffs, arms crossed as he stretches his legs out in front of the wobbly chair. “Where’s Weasley?”

 

A pointed look from Kingsley and Draco concedes with a casual toss of his hand. Kingsley answers, “She’s been admitted to an inpatient ward for rehab.” He sighs regrettably. “The poor girl was pretty far gone.”

 

“Poor girl? If you saw what _he_ looked like two days ago, I doubt you’d call her that.” Draco motions toward Harry, who lays still on the bed, his breathing steady. The bandage across his eye extends into his hairline.

 

“Perhaps they are both to blame here, Draco. We cannot judge them by their circumstances—” he pauses here for emphasis, “past or present. Not everyone was as privileged as you were.”

 

“Thanks for putting it in the past tense, there, Shacklebolt.”

 

“Always here to please, Malfoy.” He grins, but it is more a widening of lips, a concession to being politic, than anything else.

 

In the silence of the room, both men sit for over an hour waiting for the healers to make their appearance. Draco fiddles with his wand, scoots around the edges of his chair as it threatens to collapse beneath him. He scowls every time Kingsley chuckles to the quiet room. Across from him, the Minister of Magic leans against the wall, a dark, stony pillar waiting for vines to weave their menacing little fingers around his neck and strangle him. Neither pretend to care much when a slew of healers invade the room as if the Minister himself had just been blown up.

 

Draco hears little of the spells they use to remove the magically-induced coma, but laughs outright when he hears one of them throw a _Rennervate_ at Harry. The incapacitated man’s body jerks between the bed rails, but continues to lay still. One of them casts a diagnostic, but the first casts the reviving spell again. He moves more this time and one of them has to catch his arm as it flails wildly to the side.

 

A groan fills the gaps in the room between all the moving body parts and frantic whispers. Everyone stops. It’s Draco who steps forward, lays a hand on Harry’s shoulder, and speaks quietly to him.

 

“Wha-” Harry stammers, “where am I?”

 

“You’re in St. Mungo’s.”

 

“Why?” His eyes grow wide, but Draco’s hand squeezes softly at his shoulder.

 

“We can talk when the healers leave, Potter. Right now, I need you to tell them if you’re in any pain. You’ve been in a coma for two days.” Harry’s thick eyebrows draw together in confusion as he tries to remember, but Draco brings him back. “Focus, Potter. Right now. Are you in any pain right now? Feel anything unusual? Do you need anything?”

 

Harry’s hands move then and the whole room begins to scurry about as if a hornet’s nest is stirring amongst them. He runs fingers up his arms, down his chest, across what he can reach of his thighs. Draco looks down when Harry’s tongue pokes out in concentration and sees him wiggling his toes. It isn’t until he turns his hands over once, twice, then lifts them to his head that he sighs. When Harry reaches the bandage, he looks up to Draco.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Someone cast a spell on you and it wasn’t done properly. Now they want to heal the damage, but need your permission.”

 

“And if I say no?”

 

“Then you have a scar to match that one.” He flicks Harry hard on the forehead where Voldemort’s scar remains; his infamous scar. Draco grins as the healers shake their heads.  Harry mumbles something, but when Draco leans forward, he stops. “What?”

 

“Maybe they won’t stare at me all the time if it’s not just that one.” He’s looking back down at his hands, where they are now tapping out a staccato rhythm against his thigh. It grows faster, louder, until Kingsley steps forward.

 

“Perhaps we should give Mr. Potter some breathing room. We can contact you if his condition changes or if he should like that healed.”

 

Harry looks up at Kingsley, noticing him in the room for the first time. His thumb-tapping slows as the myriad healers and assistants clear the room. What remains is a steady, even beat, which Harry seemingly ignores.

 

“Which one of you is going to tell me what happened?” He looks from Draco to Kingsley and waits.

 

“Perhaps Mr. Malfoy would be better able to help you there,” Kingsley suggests hesitantly. “Harry, it’s good to see you awake.” Harry looks confused, but he continues. “I’ll see myself out. Malfoy, if anything changes, or if Harry should think of… something pertinent, send a Patronus, yes?” Draco nods. They both watch as Kingsley reaches for the door, then disappears.

 

Harry’s brows draw together like an angry caterpillar. “Mal—Draco. You’re going to have to help me, here. I don’t remember anything.”

 

“What was the last thing you do remember, Harry?”

 

“I remember…” he trails off as he looks down, thumb tapping thoughts to the wind. “I remember being angry.” Draco waits for him to continue, but when nothing comes, he clears his throat.

 

“Why were you angry?”

 

“Ginny came home late. She was late and she,” he inhales sharply, remembering. “She—oh, Merlin, Draco. What did I do?” This time, his voice is small, cracking on the last few words with emotion that runs rampant as his heart rate speeds up. A healer scurries into the room, but Draco raises a hand to stop him.

 

“We’re fine. He’s fine.”

 

“He can’t get worked up like this,” the healer insists. “Let me give him something to calm the nerves, at least.” Draco pins the older man with a steely glare, but nods.

 

“Quickly.”

 

Harry takes the offered potion with no questions asked and sets the vial aside. “I need to know, Draco.”

 

“I don’t know what you did, if you did anything.”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“Would you allow me to use Legilimency on you, Harry?” The other man seems to shrink at the mere suggestion, his breathing going erratic again, but as the potion kicks in, it slows. “You can use occlumency to shield anything prior to three days ago; I won’t go looking, Harry.”

 

“Why do you keep saying my name like that?”

 

Draco sighs. “We’re not school children anymore. I think you and I both know that we are very different individuals than the scared boys attending those trials after the war. I may still call you Potter occasionally, but your given name is Harry. For this interview, your name is Harry.” Harry nods in some strange form of acknowledgment. What, exactly, he’s acknowledging, he isn’t quite sure of just yet.

 

“Yes, you can do it.” The words are so quiet Draco almost misses them.

 

“I’ll be quick.”

 

Draco’s non-verbal spell is strong, but not offensive. He’s mastered the technique and is one of the department’s best. When he reaches out for the memories, they are there, displayed for him, but shrouded by the fog of Harry’s injury and the spell he’s been hit with. Draco slowly pulls apart each moment until he can piece it back together again. As things became clear, Harry re-lives the memories he lost. Groans and fierce denials fill the room. Soon, Draco has to pull back for fear of pushing too much, of pulling him apart so far that he can’t be put back together again.

 

“No. NO. That’s not what happened!” he says in frantic disbelief. “Ginny, she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t. She…” Harry trails off.

 

“Harry, when I came into your house, you were already unconscious, so you didn’t see what happened after she cast that spell.” He is practically whimpering now, rocking to the rhythm of his breathless mutterings.

 

“She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t. No. I told her to go, but she wouldn’t.”

 

“You asked her to leave.” Draco makes it a statement instead of a question.

 

“Yes, but she wouldn’t.”  


“Why did you want her to go?” Draco asks, more to solidify the memories in Harry’s mind than his own.

 

“She’d been with someone else.” The fingers of Harry’s left hand are running up and down his right arm. Draco watches as they slowly turn from light pressure rubs to nail gouges. He stands and walks closer.

 

“Harry, stop.” Nothing. “Harry.” No response. “Harry, you have to stop. This isn’t your fault.” Suddenly, there is a marble hand atop his own and he stills. The room is silent and he can think.

 

“She did this, didn’t she?” He removes his hand from beneath Draco’s and points to his temple. Draco nods. “Where is she?”

 

“Inpatient rehab facility.”

 

“Is she okay?”

 

“I don’t know. She was using some pretty dodgy potions. Do you know where she got any of them?” He shakes his head. “That’s all right. We’ve traced one of them to a known dealer. There were just so many in the house…” He lets the rest go unsaid.

 

“It was my fault.”

 

“No, it wasn’t. She chose that. If anyone in this fucked up world of ours had a reason to do something like that, it would be you or, hell, even me. We didn’t. She did. End of story.”

 

“It’s not that simple.”

 

“It never is, Harry. It never is.” Draco stands, stretching and looking to the door. “Do you need anything right now? I’m going to go check with the healers about your discharge. I can’t leave until you do.” Harry shakes his head and Draco is glad to leave the staccato beat of Harry’s nerves behind.


	7. Chapter 7

“What do you mean you can’t help him? You three were practically attached. Why the hell can’t you take him?”

 

“I’m sorry, Draco, but we just can’t. With Rose and now Hugo, we can’t have… _that_ in the house.”

 

“Are you fucking with me, Granger?”

 

“It’s Granger-Weasley now, Malfoy.”

 

“For Merlin’s sake. Who else can take him?”

 

“Try Neville.” Hermione’s tired face disappears and leaves Draco kneeling near the Floo reserved specifically for family calls.

 

He wipes a hand across his brow and follows it upward, combing through the blond locks with a sigh. One deep breath later, he sticks his head back into the flames with a brashly thrown bit of powder and a growl of Neville’s Floo address.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Neville.”

 

“Draco?”

 

“Now that we’ve got that out of the way.”

 

“What are you doing? Do you need to come through? What’s going on?”

 

“No, no. I can’t leave. Look, I’ll explain more later, but I need your help. More specifically, Harry needs your help.” Neville’s face drops. He sets the plant he’s holding aside, the looping tendrils grappling for his fingers forgotten.

 

“Harry? What’s happened?”

 

“Weaselette blew him up.”

 

He scowls. “Be straight with me, Draco. You tell me what’s happened with Harry right now!”

 

“I just told you the truth, Longbottom. The she-Weasel threw a botched hex at him while she was drunk. He’s been in Mungo’s for two days.”

 

“So that’s why you didn’t show for drinks the other night.”

 

“Yea, and none of you sad sacks even bothered to try and find me, either.” Draco huffs out of his nose, as indignant as he can get kneeling on a hospital floor.

 

“So what does he need?”

 

“He needs someone to stay with. Someone to keep tabs on him for a while.”

 

“Fuck.”

 

“Sounds about right.”

 

“You know I can’t. I bloody well wish I could, mate, but I can’t. Term’s just started and I’m back and forth between Hannah and Hogwarts. She’ll have my hide if I disappear on her again—and I certainly can’t keep Harry at home. The flat’s barely big enough for the two of us. Well, three, I suppose.” Neville looks miserable, his eyes straying down to unclasp a particularly pesky tendril that’s latched on. “I was going to tell everyone this weekend.”

 

“Well done, Longbottom. As much as I hate to say it, I understand. Give Hannah my regards.” The other man perks up with a shy smile and nods before watching Draco disappear in a swirl of green.

 

“Salazar’s tits, I’m fucked.” Draco falls back, snorting in disdain as a mother hurries her child away with hands over his ears. The little one squeaks when she swats his bum for repeating, “Salazar’s tits.” Draco chuckles and for a minute, he leans his head against the wall, mulling over the options.

 

Just as Draco nears the door to Harry’s room, he hears wild shrieking. His feet pick up the pace and the door dissolves before his wand in his urgency to see what’s going on. There are two healers trying to subdue Harry to the bed. They’ve managed one leg and are working on the second when Draco steps directly behind them.

 

“Well, boys,” Draco drawls. “Unless you want to be able to play with your own organs, I think you should leave.” Both pause long enough to stare at him, wand aimed.

 

They bolt, one stopping long enough to ask him, “You coming with us?”

 

“No. Why would I do that?”

 

“Aren’t you afraid?” His voice shakes as he asks, looking from Draco to the huddled form on the bed and back to the dark mark displayed on Draco’s arm.

 

“This one’s never been a match for me.” The young healer bolts as if he’s forgotten to feed his children that morning, leaving the two of them alone. Harry unfurls enough to look up at Draco, confused. Draco sighs, walks up to the bed, and begins unfastening the wrist and leg cuffs. Magical bindings, they are. Draco laughs, noticing that Harry has already broken one.

 

“Are we going to have any issues?” When Harry doesn’t respond, Draco tries again. “Are you going to hurt me, Harry?” At the sound of his name, he looks up.

 

“No.” Silence, until— “Why did you help me?”

 

“I can’t imagine anyone would want to be tied up, let alone someone who just went through what you did.” Bindings undone, Harry rubs at his ankles. Draco runs a hand through his hair again, moving away to once again take his place in the rickety chair. “Look, Harry. We don’t have many options here. You can’t discharge home by yourself. Do you have anywhere you want to go?”

 

“Can I talk to Ron or Hermione?” Draco winces.

 

“I’ve already Floo called them. They say with the two Weasel-brats, they can’t risk anything.” Harry is heartbroken, sinking further into himself and the bed. With no response, Draco continues, “Is there anyone else you can think of?” Harry shakes his head. “All right then. You’ll just have to go where I tell you. You have to be monitored for three months. Do you understand that?” Again, no response. “Potter. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then explain it to me.”

 

“I can’t go home for three months. Someone has to babysit me.”

 

“Good enough.”

 

Just then, a female healer pokes her head around the door. “Mr. Malfoy? Is he ready for discharge? We need the bed.”

 

“No you bloody don’t,” Draco says tartly. “You are all just a bunch of cock-sucking imbeciles who can’t piss in the toilet if the wind is blowing in Surrey.” Harry laughs, actually lets out a full belly laugh, and Draco smirks.

 

“Excuse me, Mr. Malfoy, but at this point Mr. Potter has no valid medical reason for being here. We need to discharge him. Do you have his discharge location? I need to fill out his paperwork.” Draco pushes up from the chair in a slow, sinuous motion. His steely glare never leaves her as he does so and she doesn’t fail to notice the wand in his hand, nor the lack of restraints on Harry.

 

“Mr. Potter is going home with me.”

 

“I think that’s highly unethical. You’re the Auror on his case.”

 

“You are going to question me on ethics, Miss—what was it?” She stammers, but can’t quite answer him. “Mr. Potter is going to go where I tell him because you lot are giving him no bloody choice. He will be looked after thoroughly by the house elves and my mother will surely check in on him. I’ll likely never see _his highness_ after tonight.”

 

The voices escalate between them and it’s all a bit too much. Harry retreats from the hospital bed into the corner, unnoticed by either party. When they are done arguing and stand huffing inches away from one another, Draco breaks only to find Harry. When he does, he rolls his eyes, walks over, and grabs him round the wrist. Harry flails, immediately flashing back to the fight with Ginny. He tries calling out for help, but Draco glares down everyone who steps toward them.

 

Harry is nearly being dragged across the floor. It isn’t until he sees the rapid flare of Floo arrivals and departures that Harry realizes he is leaving. His body goes limp and he begins to allow this follow-tug-drag sort of ramble they are doing. He doesn’t make it to the fire, though. He never reaches the flames. Instead, he feels the lurching swirl behind his ribs that preludes side-along apparition. Then they are gone, and things are better. Things are better as fresh air envelops him, he can look around and see… the manor that haunts his nightmares.

 

He falls to the ground, air unable to penetrate his lungs. He scrabbles at his throat as if doing so will open newer, better passageways for cleaner air. The air here is thick with memory that he is drowning in and it’s threatening to pull him under. Beneath him, the gravel shifts against his knees; it leaves welts and angrily mars his hands as he begins to crawl away toward something, anything other than this.

 

“For Merlin’s sake. Tovo!” The distinct pop of a house-elf comes just slightly before the undignified squeak of its owner.

 

“Master Draco, how may Tovo be helping you sir?”

 

“Get him inside. See to him.”

 

“Oh!” Her voice goes up several octaves higher as she turns her attention to Harry, who now lies flat on his belly. “Mister Harry Potter, sir?”

 

“He-elp.” He barely gets the word out, but the house elf squeals again and apparates him inside. Draco sighs and walks toward the door, taking the moment to breathe before confronting his mother about their new guest.


	8. Chapter 8

Everything is spinning. There isn’t much to make sense of when up is down and his lungs are filled with something thicker than porridge that won’t quite leave the clutches of his throat, and it is all a bit too constricting. Harry is clawing at anything and everything he can reach. He pulls down the curtains in the sitting room outside of the entrance hall and Tovo’s magic is frantic, biting at his skin. The little elf is trying to contain their new guest to the room, but failing miserably since he keeps trying to disapparate. She screeches out another elf’s name and he hears a pop before he screams.

 

It is shrill and overpowers everything. He cannot tell whether it is in his head or if it’s coming out of his throat, but his mouth is moving all the same. Tears stream down his face and he is seeing Hermione lying on the floor, the wild curls of Bellatrix hovering over her with a dagger searing into his best friend’s flesh. Hermione is trying not to call out, not to move, but she is failing. Harry collapses in on himself and his tapping turns into slapping against his thigh as he mutters words that even Tovo has no recollection of knowing.

 

Draco enters the room behind the second elf. He looks to Harry, who has his eyes clenched shut and is slapping his thigh to the rapid rocking of his upper body. His words come quickly. Some are in Parseltongue and some are so slurred that when his voice rises in volume, Tovo looks to Draco in puzzlement. Draco waves the little one off, but reassures her that the wards have been changed to disallow their guest from apparition of any sort. She looks relieved and moves to stand near her charge without getting too close.

 

There is just long enough for a bottle of whiskey to be opened before Narcissa strides into the room. She takes one look at the new arrival, arches a thin eyebrow at Draco, and sighs. Her son is nursing his glass of spirits, holding it near his temple and waving it in an airy gesture toward Harry.

 

“As you can see, Mother, we have a guest. He will be staying here until the good doctors release him. I’ve also given him our protection from the Weasley bint.” At that, Narcissa smirks, though it is a gentler version than the one her son more frequently wears.

 

“Tovo, please see Mr. Potter to the guest suite near Draco’s rooms.” The little elf beams up at her mistress and nods. “Thank you. Draco, my love. How do you get us into these predicaments?” Her smile is warm and placating as Draco scowls. She glances over to the fallen curtains and fixes them with a simple household spell. Once everything is set to rights, she drapes herself across the quaint couch and waits for Draco to relax enough for conversation.

 

Three refills in, sitting on the opposite couch, Draco’s tie is loose and he’s slouching forward. Between slender hands, ice clinks as it rocks against the confines of his glass. “I have no idea what he’s thinking,” he murmurs. “He had everything. He’s got the world at his fingertips and he threw it all away.” Draco’s own fingers run through his hair in a gesture that is so reflexive he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. Narcissa can see the exhaustion in his eyes, how he hasn’t quite slept well for years, but hides it with whiskey and scotch; how he pretends he has friends, but the only true friend he has is himself—and even then, he’s lying.

 

“Draco, you cannot expect a boy just out of school to know the answers to everything. You cannot expect someone who bore the burdens he did to be all right.”

 

“Why the hell not?” Draco protests. “He was the Golden Boy, the Chosen One. He was the scion, the perfect hero of the wizarding world. Why can’t I hold him to the standards everyone wants to put me to?” His sarcasm turns to anger and he’s sitting on the edge of the couch, gripping his glass a bit too tightly.

 

Narcissa sighs. “Is that what this is about?”

 

“What?”

 

“ _You_ , Draco. You feeling inadequate for so many years because of Harry Potter and then finding out that he isn’t quite who you thought he was. He isn’t everything you thought he would be. He isn’t better than you.” She leans forward, fingers gripping the cushion as her eyes bear down on her son’s. “He was never better than you, Draco.”

 

“I’ve never thought—”

 

“You’ve always thought so. Never lie to me.” Her voice is sharp, like a razor that licks at his skin and crawls inside through the wound. “Your father taught you many things, my son. Self-loathing was one of them and I abhor him for it. You are your own man, just as Harry is his. You’ve made many decisions that led you here. So has he. There’s no use comparing the two, because at some point, everyone makes poor decisions. We all need someone to help us when we’ve lost our way; don’t we, Draco?”

 

At that, he looks up at her, steel eyes hard and unyielding. He can’t let her know how much he needed help at the end of the war. How much he loathed himself for everything he’d done and everything he’d put her through. The small noise as he set his glass on the table beside the chair is deafening in the silence between them. He stands and makes his way toward her. Draco leans over, one hand on her shoulder, and places a gentle kiss to her forehead before turning to leave the room without a word.


	9. Chapter 9

Light floods the room, but he cannot tell if it’s moonlight or if the sun has yet to rise fully. He thinks of Remus and shakes his head too fast—too hard. There is a buzzing as he clutches his ears and waits, his world narrowing to the shallow in and out of breath.

 

“Remus is gone. Remus and Tonks. _Teddy_. Remus is gone. Remus. _Oh gods, Remus_.” Slivers of light wrap and tangle around his body, manacles on the flesh that he no longer wants to keep alive. He slides to the ground in a heap. Hands cup his protruding ribs, which heave with the effort of trying to steady himself, to keep a little bit of him in this world and not tumbling into that where he can be with Remus, with Sirius. His fingernails clutch firmly at _skin_ , leave putrid nail marks in _skin_ , and cause bloody trails across _skin_. Skin means he is alive.

 

He wasn’t once. For a blessed while, he couldn’t feel the pain. He couldn’t feel anything. They brought him back to fight. Fighting, screaming, death. So much death. Fred. Remus. Tonks. Snape. So many more died for him, _because_ of him.

 

“No. No. No. NO!”

 

He is up, moving, pacing. His feet have worn a path into the wood floor over the last several days. At some point, he stopped wearing socks, as the heels wore out and he built up calluses around the holes where his skin grew agitated from having fabric there in the first place. The soft slap of his feet traps the noise of his thumb tapping against his elbow until his arms flail wildly and are once again at his ears, trying to hold the noise in, rather than out.

 

“He’s dead. I know he’s dead. I killed him. He’s dead. Why wouldn’t he be dead? He could… No, he’s dead. Could he? Don’t be stupid, Harry!” This is punctuated with the heel of his hand to a temple, repeated twice until the pacing resumes. “There are wards. This is the Manor. There are wards here. The wards don’t matter. They don’t matter. He broke them. He broke them. He can get in. Maybe he’s already here.”

 

Harry rushes to the window, trying to lift the pane, but the elves have already safeguarded such action by charming them all shut. “Fuck. I need to get out! Help me! Help me! I’m stuck. I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe! I’m drowning!” He’s clawing at his throat again and when the window refuses to budge, either by opening or after banging the nearby chair against its seemingly brittle frame, Harry is on his knees.

 

“There is another. He made another. More than one. Yes, more than one. Draco would know. Draco was here. Tovo!” The little elf pops into the room by the door opposite where Harry kneels, staring wide-eyed at him.

 

“Yes, mister Harry Potter, sir?” Her voice is tremulous, unsure. She peeks around the bed to see that he hasn’t moved.

 

“Draco. You need to get Draco.”

 

“Master Draco is at work, sir. Tovo isn’t to be getting him, sir.” She looks down at the floor, waiting for some sort of punishment. Harry jumps up and she squeaks, rushing to hide behind the nearby table.

 

“You were here, weren’t you? Do you know if he’s got one?” Harry is crawling toward her and she continues to skirt around the furniture away from him.

 

“Tovo isn’t sure what mister is asking about. What is mister looking for?”

 

“The horcruxes, Tovo. He’s got another one! You know where it is. I know you do. Tell me where it is. I can destroy it. I’m sure if I called it, the sword would come to me. I need to kill him. I need to kill him. He’s not dead.” Harry’s eyes are burning with a fever that has no real cure. Tovo winces as she watches her charge thrash against the wall, bruise his exposed shin, and continue walking.

 

She checks on him several times that evening. Each time he calls her, it’s the same thing. He asks her where the horcrux is, or perhaps where Voldemort himself is. Maybe he is confusing the two; maybe in his mind they are both alive and worthy of the anguish he puts himself through. Tovo wrings her hands in the stained fabric of her garment each time she enters the room and finds him more manic, less able to walk and talk and make any sense of the world. It is a relief to her when she checks on him in the late hours of the evening and he is passed out from pure exhaustion—of the mind or body, she cannot say. All Tovo can do is get him to bed, cast some cleaning charms, and leave food for the next time he wakes. She fervently hopes he eats something before it starts over again; there aren’t many days when his clarity outpaces the onset of lunacy and she can see him failing.

 

++

 

The manor breathes loudly in the aftermath of the new moon. Darkness reigns over the grounds and Harry’s movements are quiet to those who sleep as if they are safe.  He can feel eyes on him from darker shadows that elude his grasp, so he sticks to what he knows.

 

It only takes a few days to find it. After all, he nearly always sees Draco with a glass in hand and, even when he doesn’t, it wouldn’t have been difficult to follow his nose. In a room such as this, the curtains are never drawn. The French windows span the room, letting in obscure light from observant constellations and Fae alike. Harry’s fingers trail along the granite counter, each faltering step just one more toward complete obliteration.

 

The glasses clink together and Harry breathes deeply, eyes lowering to stare at them as if they are misbehaving and need reprimand. He grabs one, barely holds on to it as he walks farther toward the end of the counter, and sets it down rather loudly. He laughs harshly at himself, then hiccups on air and desperation. The liquid sloshes into the glass without grace. It leaves a sticky film behind with fingerprints pointing toward the culprit, but he isn’t aware enough to care. The first glass is gone.

 

He pours another; this one quickly follows the first. He smacks his lips after it burns his toes and he wriggles his fingers to be sure everything still works. A nod. Another drink. The bottle refreshes itself. He smiles. It’s a shy smile, but Harry lets it happen. He lets it out for a trial run since he’s not quite sure how to contain it or how it happened in the first place. Perhaps he’ll have to get rid of it. A sip. Two more. Another drink gone.

 

His feet are moving again. Stone tiles are crisp beneath his bones. Bones are rattling beneath his clothes, but again, he isn’t quite sure how that happened, so he lets it go and continues. He thinks that he sounds somewhat like a child’s toy—rattling, shuffling, clinking. Harry laughs, and the sound is dry. Glass raised to the sky, he feels a tear slide down his cheek.

 

One is joined by many and the liquid courage in his glass is not enough to drown his sorrows. At this point, he’s grown roots next to a gazing pond and feels aptly out of reflection. Harry’s limbs are no longer moving, and the alcohol has done its job. All he can think about is everything he wishes to forget. He considers the pool and lurches forward, fully intent on drowning himself.

 

“Please, _please_ let me go,” is the last thing he remembers.

 

++

 

Some mornings, the elves rouse Narcissa or Draco from their chambers to bring Harry back into the manor. On occasion, he doesn’t wake when they move him. There are several evenings when Narcissa watches the entire thing play out from her balcony, only to retreat into her sanctuary, unable to cope with the drunkard in her gardens. Those evenings, she feigns illness if the house elves come for her.

 

There are some nights, though, when Harry does not make things easy in the slightest. One night, after chasing nightmares through the maze for hours, Harry falls near the stables. He would have remained asleep for a long while except for the peacock plucking at his unruly hair, likely mistaking it for flobberworms. Harry wakes with a start, thrashing violently. The screaming summons Tovo, who pops next to him in a flash.

 

“Snake. It can’t be. He killed her. She’s dead. Oh Merlin. She’s dead, but she’s right there, but she’s dead.” The entire time, Harry is pointing at the peacock, whose saucer-eyes are blinking slowly at him. When it advances toward him again, Harry shrieks and scrambles toward Tovo. “She’s a horcrux, but she’s dead. We killed her. Get Neville! He has the sword! He has to kill the snake!”

 

“What in Salazar is going on out here?” Draco materializes out of the darkness, a flash of moonlight in the otherwise lightless evening. Tovo looks up at him with desperate eyes as Harry clings to her.

 

“Get Neville! You know where he is! We need the sword!”

 

“What the fuck happened to you, Potter? Are you drunk?”

 

“M’not dru—eughhhh—”

 

The proof of Harry’s evening exploits ends up on Draco’s bare feet.

 

“You did not just do that. I will fucking kill you for that.” Draco sighs and points at the ground. “Clean it up.” Harry lifts his head, groans, attempts to move his wand arm, but Tovo casts a cleaning charm and glares.

 

“Master Draco, sir. I will take care of him, sir.”

 

“You’d best see that you do. And _what_ is that _smell_?” Tovo looks around, then down at Harry.

 

“It seems Mister Harry Potter has messed himself, sir.” Draco snorts, throws his hand in the air, then disapparates. Tovo clicks to herself, casts another charm to pull the urine from Harry’s clothing and disapparates them both to his rooms.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger: Self-harm**

Something scrambles in the bed beside him and Draco mumbles to himself, pulling a nearby pillow over his head. The mattress shifts and he growls.

 

“Master Draco, sir! You must come. Oh, dear, you _must_ come!” Tovo is crying, shrieking, almost wailing as she claws at her own garment.

 

“What do you want, Tovo?” He obliges her, just this once.

 

“Master Draco, sir. You been asleep for so long. I couldn’t wake you. There’s so much blood. I can’t stop it. He won’t let Tovo near. Oh, dear. Please help him, Master Draco!” As she continues tugging at the fabric of her little gown, Draco casts a _Lumos_ and sees the dark stains on her fingers and toes. He sits up quickly, grabbing Tovo by the shoulders and shaking her once. Her eyes widen and she stills except for the sniffling she cannot control.

 

“My mother?” The words barely make it out of his throat before he tosses her aside and moves to the door.

 

“No, Master Draco, sir. It is mister Harry Potter!”

 

Draco looks back to the little, bedraggled thing lying crumpled on his bed and snarls as he rushes out his door. The steps to cross the hall seem to take longer than he’s used to, but when the door opens, his hand shakes—just long enough for him to take a deep breath and push through. Upon entering, there is silence. Nothing moves in the darkness of Harry’s rooms, but he can smell the foulness of an unbathed body and his nose automatically crinkles in disgust.

 

Ignoring what his instincts are telling him, Draco moves forward. Wand out and walking slowly, he finds Harry in the bathroom. It is not what he expected.

 

Harry stands before the broken mirror, staring at himself, yet not seeing. He grips a piece of glass in one palm, blood dripping from the tips of his fingers. There is splatter across the floor. Drops create a pattern of movement in which Harry is the centerpiece. Draco tries to trace everything in a quick glance, but the cold seeping into his silk pajamas through the lifeblood on the floor is sickening. He pales, looks closer.

 

There are gashes across Harry’s arms, wrists, and opposite shoulder. This is not something that happened suddenly. The cuts are clean, precise. Each was done slowly and with some bizarre bit of care. As Draco looks upon his body, he can tell that this is not the first time he’s done this. A skilled wizard such as Harry should have healed any injuries he’s received, but Draco’s breath falters as his eyes outline the many interwoven lines on Harry’s skin.

 

“Harry. I need you to put down the glass.” No response. No movement—only emptiness. “Harry, please put it down.” Draco’s voice is soft, yet demanding. He steps toward the man carefully. “Harry, you’re only hurting yourself more by holding it like that. Put it down.” He moves around to Harry’s side, and still, there is no movement. Draco decides to risk it. His wand slips into the pocket of his pajamas.

 

Porcelain hands frame either side of Harry’s jaw and there is the slightest shift of an eye. “ _Harry_.” A breath. A deep, shuddering breath invades Harry’s entire body. It brings him to life, as if he’s been somewhere else entirely and has just now returned. His fingers clench, then loosen. Draco reaches down and uses one hand to peel gouged flesh away from the weaponized glass, while the other tosses it in the sink. It is slight, but Draco feels the magic as Tovo vanishes the mirror, broken pieces and all.

 

In the process of healing Harry’s wounds, Draco continues looking up at him to see if he’s gone away again. “Are you okay?” At this, Harry looks up. He does not look at Draco, but through him.

 

“Everything was still.” Draco did not expect a response, and the quiet words are almost too soft to hear. He leans forward a bit as he continues healing Harry’s wounds. “That’s the only time I can hear. When I’m bleeding, I know he’s gone. I need to know he’s gone, Draco.”

 

Then he is crying and all Draco can do is look him in the eye and say, “You made sure he was gone. He cannot come back. I felt him leave the moment you killed him.” He pauses. “But _you_ are alive, Harry. You need to remember that. You need to _want_ that.”

 

There is a breath; then— “Why?” Harry demands. “What reason do I have to live now? Ginny’s gone. She tried to… I don’t even know if we were ever… I have to stay here because none of my friends will have me. I can’t be on my own, or…” His face contorts into some semblance of confused anger and Draco does his best to intervene.

 

“What reason do you have to die?” The words are exasperated, but there is genuine concern showing on his face before he turns back to picking glass out of Harry’s fingers.

 

For the broken man, there is no good answer to that question. He continues to let tears fall unabashedly down his face, shoulders lifting and jerking with the uneven cadence of his breathing. At some point, Harry’s legs give out and Draco guides him to the floor, allowing the exhausted man to grab hold of his waist. Draco embraces him, awkward though it is, until Harry has nothing left to give.

 

Tovo comes immediately to Draco’s summons and whispers softly in reply when Draco asks her to levitate Harry to bed. Rather than return to his own rooms, Draco seeks the couch just beyond Harry’s reach. Tovo covers him with a blanket and the young Malfoy groans before burrowing deep into the cushions. Draco stays awake until the sun falls across the tortured man in front of him.


	11. Chapter 11

There is that space between waking and sleeping where things are a bit rounded on the edges and everything loses focus. Draco can’t pull himself out of this limbo after staying up to watch Harry. Dust motes fly through bands of morning to land gently on his nose. He scrunches up a bit, but otherwise doesn’t come to. On the bed, Harry is restless. Sweat soaks into the bed linens, but he clings to the covers as if they can prevent all the bad memories from finding him.

 

A cry, sharp and startling, has Draco flailing for balance on the edge of the couch. He tosses the blanket off, wipes away the remnants of sleep and walks toward Harry. With clothes on, he can’t see any scars. He can’t tell that the man in front of him has been tortured, burned, has skin like that of a war veteran—Draco has to remind himself that Harry is very much a child of war and takes a deep breath. There are mumbled words coming from beneath the covers; he leans forward.

 

“Mrmph Hog-wand-Quiddi-Weasley-narg-mmm—” This goes on for several minutes, until he hears, “Dumbledore.” That is a name, said softly, reverently even in sleep, that makes Draco clench his jaw and back away from the bed.

 

He scrambles toward the door and in his haste, makes an awful amount of noise trying to find the knob. Watching the sleeping figure, his reaching left hand locates it and presses down. It isn’t until he’s out of the room that he realizes he’s been holding his breath. Exhaling in a great burst of emotion, Draco doubles over and grabs hold of his knees. The wall becomes his support. This is how Tovo finds him.

 

“What can Tovo do for Master Draco?” The concern in her voice is overwhelming. He looks up and grimaces. His hand gestures toward the room he’s vacated.

 

“Go watch him. I—I need some time.” Just as Tovo is about to reassure Draco of her loyalty and whatever other nonsense he is sure would follow, he hears a strangled scream which somewhat resembles his name.

 

“—aaaaacco!” It isn’t quite the right sound or letters, but he closes his eyes, leans his head against the wall, and releases the tear he’s been damning. Tovo’s eyes grow wide and he wipes it away, banging his head hard on the wall, then reaching for the door.

 

“Does Mast—”

 

“No.” Then he is gone.

 

Inside the room, Harry huddles on the other side of his bed, hands searching the ground as if he’s lost something. Draco takes a stuttering breath and walks forward. Harry looks up, wild-eyed and afraid.

 

“Harry?”

 

“It was here. I felt it.”

 

“You felt what, Harry.’

 

“I felt him. He has another one here.”

 

“Tell me what you felt, because I can guarantee you he wasn’t here.” The sigh he lets out seems overwhelming. Harry is crawling around, looking under the bed and peeking around corners as if waiting for something to happen.

 

“Magic. Powerful, dark magic.”

 

“This house is full of dark magic,” Draco spits out. I highly doubt this is the first time you’re feeling it.”

 

“No, but I feel it burning across my skin. It’s on fire. It’s inside me. It’s like he’s inside me again.” Draco’s brow quirks up. He’s heard about the connection with Harry and Voldemort from Lucius, but knows that it was broken during the battle at Hogwarts.

 

“When did it start?”

 

“Last night. After it was quiet. It was so quiet. Then I started burning. He’s burning me alive.” Draco taps his finger against his leg twice and, as if that irritates him, shoves his hand in his trousers to retrieve his wand. Harry dives for the bed.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Lower your wand!”

 

“It isn’t raised, you daft wanker.” He growls, but holds it out to the side. Thoughts pass through so quickly. He tries to think of a spell that is incredibly harmless, but would land on Harry’s skin. “ _Tergeo_.” Harry wails from his hiding spot and lurches into the middle of the room.

 

“What’s happening? Where is he?”

 

“Harry, did you just feel the burning?”

 

“YES!” Harry roars. “Make it stop! Find him!”

 

“Harry, stop.” He continues to thrash and wail, clutching at his clothing, his skin, scratching and digging and tearing. Draco stalks forward and puts a body-bind on the man. Only panic-stricken eyes look up at him. “I said stop. Do you feel the burning now?” Harry’s eyes roll back into his head. “That is _my_ magic, Harry. I am not Voldemort, nor am I particularly dark or evil. I have my days, as you well know, but I am not that boy anymore.” He backs away a step, ready for a fight. “I’m going to release you now.” When the spell lifts, Harry jerks once, twice, then lays there breathing heavily. “Are you all right now?”

 

All he gets is a nod. He turns and walks out of the room, sending Tovo in to watch the odd wizard. He desperately needs to shower. The odd feeling shooting up his arms is from more than the proximity to Harry’s wild magic.


	12. Chapter 12

Commotion from beyond the study draws Draco from his post-work stupor. He emerges in the midst of a house elf scolding Neville Longbottom for arriving unannounced. Narcissa laughs softly from the opposite doorway. Draco chides his mother wordlessly before turning to address the eager elf.

 

“Hey, umm…” Damn it all, he’s forgotten this one’s name. He was trying so hard. “Elf.” He says the word so strongly that the little creature jumps and turns on the spot, cowering in supplication. “Fuck. There’s no need for all the drama. Neville can be here.” The elf isn’t moving, so Draco takes a deep breath, something he’s been doing too much of lately, and steps toward him. “Stop this. I’m not going to hurt you. I just don’t know your name.”

 

“Master Draco sir,” Tovo offers, “this one’s name is Tad.”

 

“Tad. Hopefully I’ll remember that next time. You may go.” He still hasn’t looked up at Draco as he backs out of the room. “Mother, why didn’t you help out our guest?”

 

“It was more fun to watch, darling.”

 

“Of course it was. Neville, what can I do for you? Is everything okay with Hannah?”

 

“Hannah?” Neville echoes vacantly. “Oh! Yes, yes, she’s lovely.” His eyes go soft and drift for a moment before reconnecting with Draco’s. “No, I was hoping to visit with Harry, if that’s all right?” He fumbles with a small tin in one hand, not quite sure what to do with the other. After a minute, he shoves it in the pocket of his jumper.

 

“I’m not sure that’s a great idea right now.” Draco watches as the other man’s shoulders slump. He squeezes the tin just a bit too tightly and it bows. “Let me take that for now.” He can save whatever poor offering is inside until such a time when it can be inspected.

 

“Is he all right?” Neville asks.

 

“Let’s go to my study. Mother, thank you as always for your presence.”

 

“It was nice seeing you, Mrs. Malfoy.” Narcissa’s lips thin at the title, but she tilts her head to the boys all the same.

 

A non-verbal spell closes the door behind them and Neville casually leans back in one of the armchairs. He’s been in this room many times, but rarely with such a somber tone. Draco takes his usual place behind the desk. There is a bottle of Ogden’s on display. Neville nods toward it and Draco summons another glass. As the deep amber liquid cascades over the ice, Neville looks around.

 

“How is he, Draco?”

 

Draco pauses, letting the liquid settle.

 

“How much do you know about his and Ginny’s relationship before the St. Mungo’s visit?”

 

“I know it wasn’t healthy, if that’s what you mean. They’d been at each other for a long time. Always arguing. It was like something changed.”

 

“When?” Draco questions.

 

“A year or so after the war. About the time Ginny moved in.” Draco nods, running his finger along the edge of his glass.

 

“And what about Ginny? Anything unusual there?” Neville has the grace to blush.

 

“We don’t… we didn’t really talk about it.”

 

“About what, Longbottom?” Weary eyes lift to meet steel grey.

 

“Her… problems. We don’t talk about her problems,” Neville stutters. Draco considers the impact of their avoidance.

 

“Neville, I’m going to be straight with you. Harry is fucked up. He didn’t get this way yesterday. Unless I start getting some answers, even you aren’t going to be able to help him.” Neville leans back, a long swallow of whisky burning his throat, and closes his eyes.

 

“The drinking, the potions, the cheating. Using Harry’s money for all of it.”

 

“How long had it been going on?”

 

“Before she moved in.”

 

“No wonder he’s tried to kill himself.” Draco says it off-handedly, not really meaning for Neville to hear.

 

“He WHAT?” Neville is on his feet, whisky glass fallen to the floor. Draco cleans up the liquid with an exasperated charm and waits for the pacing to begin. “What happened? _When_ did it happen? Before or after? Why didn’t I know? Did anyone know?” He looks about ready to spit out another question, but Draco holds up a hand. His mouth moves, but nothing comes out. He resumes his seat on the chair, elbows on his thighs and drops his head into his earth-stained fingers.

 

“He cuts himself. It happened here, after. I haven’t told anyone. You shouldn’t either.” The implication is clear.

 

“So if I hadn’t come here, I wouldn’t know anything?” Neville’s voice cracks with emotion.

 

“No.”

 

“What are you doing for him, Draco? How is he getting any better here?”

 

“He’s not with her. He’s eating something, most of the time. He’s got two more months. I’m _not_ a fucking healer, Neville. He has to be seen again before they release him.”

 

“So that’s it? You’re just going to let him rot in a guest room until the healer looks at him again?” It’s Draco’s turn to take a hard swallow. The whisky is warm, but he doesn’t stay that way.

 

“Yes. No. I—” He fights with something Neville can’t see or understand. “If he needs something, he can have it.”

 

“He should probably see a mind healer, Draco.” The blond swallows again and Neville knows that this is all the acknowledgment he will receive. “I should probably go.”

 

“All right.”

 

They get up and walk toward the hall. As it opens, Harry’s unruly hair peeks around the wood of his door. His eyes are wide and the knuckles gripping the frame are pale.

 

“N-Neville?” he whispers.

 

“Harry.”

 

“What are you doing here? Are you taking me home?”

 

“Oh. No, Harry. I’m sorry.” Harry’s eyes drop to the floor and Neville chances a step closer.

 

“How is Hannah?” The words are small, much as Harry is trying to be in the thin opening he creates into his space.

 

“She is wonderful! We are all excited about the sprog. It’s a girl!” Neville blushes and Harry gasps.

 

“You’re pregnant?” Harry asks. Draco smirks at this; Harry cocks his head and files it away for later.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Congratulations, Neville. You’ll be a great dad.”

 

“Thanks, Harry.”

 

“Have you seen Ron or Hermione?” Neville looks to Draco, a silent ask for permission. When Draco shakes his head, Harry begins to open the door.

 

“Why can’t he tell me anything? Is something wrong? Do they not want me for some other reason than I’ve gone crazy? I already know you didn’t want me. I understand. I wouldn’t want to deal with this, either.”

 

“That’s not it, Harry. I—” Before Neville can provoke Harry any further, Draco grabs Neville’s upper arms and ushers him down the hall. Neville breaks loose and walks toward Harry. The other man is surprised, but holds his ground. “I love you Harry. We all miss you.” Harry is wrapped in a warm hug, something he hasn’t felt for a very long time and begins to cry. “Please get well, Harry.” He watches as Draco escorts Neville down the stairs, whispering back and forth.

 

Harry makes it as far as the other side of the door before his legs give out. The tears come and they don’t stop for many hours. When Tovo finds him there asleep, she clucks, but leaves food nearby in case he wakes. One little finger brushes away the locks of overgrown hair that have fallen in front of his eyes.


	13. Chapter 13

He wakes with the thunder of a late-season storm settling around the manor. However, it isn’t the storm that unsettles him. It’s the whimpering coming from the foot of his bed. Tovo hops from foot to foot, forcing him to sit up and dig a palm into his unwilling eyes.

 

“What is it? This had better be fucking important.”

 

“Mister Harry Potter has locked himself in the library, Master Draco.”

 

“Again?” A little nod, and Tovo backs away. The whimpering gets louder as Draco stands. “Haven’t you tried apparating in there? What about unlocking the doors? How incompetent are you lot?”

 

“We’ve tried! We promise, Master, we has all tried to get him out!”

 

“We?” His voice falls flat to the floor, where he waits for an explanation.

 

“Yes, Master Draco. We all tried. Some of us tried together. Nothing worked. We even waked Mistress Narcissa before we waked you and she could not open the door.” Tovo is shredding the edge of her garment, an outward display of her nerves.

 

“Fine. Let’s go.” He waves her forward, not bothering with a shirt. The soft pat of his feet is rhythmic as he slinks down the hall, followed by the rustle of silk as his pajama pants brush the marble floor. A shiver runs up his spine as he gets closer, but he isn’t entirely sure it’s from the cool surface beneath his feet.

 

“Potter!” He bangs a fist on the door, followed by a few unlocking spells and even a _Bombarda_. At this point, he could care less what happens to the door, so long as he can go back to sleep. “OPEN UP THE DAMN DOOR,” he roars. There is silence. Draco leans his forehead against the dark grain of the wood. He swears to himself before making his way back to his personal Floo.

 

“Dean. I need you to come here.  Yes, I bloody well know it’s the middle of the night. Just get over here.” He stands and walks away to pace, biting a nail. When the Floo roars and Dean Thomas walks through, Draco nods. Dean shrugs and crosses his arms.

 

“What is so important that you needed me _now?”_

 

“I have someone locked in my library.”

 

“And that’s my problem how?”

 

“You’re a fucking curse breaker,” Draco grits out. “Open the fucking door.”

 

“Well if you’re going to act like that. Who is it?”

 

“If you get the door open, you’ll see, now won’t you?” Dean looks at him strangely. Draco’s quips usually bite, but Dean is startled by the way he’s prowling around the room.

 

“Take me there, then.” Draco nods again, as close to a ‘thank you’ as he will get.

 

Dean approaches the doors cautiously. He holds a hand out, dark skin against darker wood. He hums with the magic and tilts his head.

 

“Someone powerful, then.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What have you tried?”

 

“The house elves tried everything they know. I tried a few unlocking spells, and a _Bombarda_.” The other man stares open-mouthed.

 

“Damn.”

 

“Yes.” His tongue lingers on the last syllable and he steps away. He needs the man to do his work so he can get back to pointedly ignoring what he’s been dubbing his “Potter problem.”

 

“All right.” Dean closes his eyes, feels the threads of magic woven together like a blanket around the room. He begins to pick them away, one at a time, until there’s one he is unfamiliar with. At this point, he’s sweating and kneeling in front of the door. Draco is back to biting his nail and leaning against the opposite wall. When he sees Dean pause, Draco knows better than to speak, even though every part of him wants to know what’s going on.

 

“This is something I’ve not encountered before.” Dean’s hands drop to his thighs and his shoulders round forward. Deep, heaving breaths come in and out.

 

“Can you finish it?”

 

“I’ve barely begun.” He waves a hand at the door and laughs. “Do you have a savant or something in there?”

 

“More like a drunk pain my ass.” This earns him another confused look. “Look, can you keep going or do we need someone else?”

 

“There’s only one person that can do something like this. He happens to be someone you know very well.”

 

“ _Fuck_.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Fine.” Dean sits back and Draco heads to the Floo. When the other side answers, the conversation is clipped. “I’m calling in the favor. Now.”

 

“What do you need?”

 

“Get over here. I’ll explain it then.”

 

“Five minutes.”

 

More pacing; his nail is down to the irritated flesh and he hesitates only briefly before attacking another. Draco hasn’t seen this man for several years, even though they both work at the Ministry. Sometimes, words carry far more worth than anyone can know. He’d chosen the wrong ones. When a cloaked figure steps through, Draco pauses, turns, and waits.

 

“What do you need?” The words glide along his skin. A shiver ripples across his chest and his nipples harden before he remembers he hasn’t put a shirt on. Draco is glad for the low light in the room then, as his blush fades quickly.

 

“There is someone warded in my library. Thomas couldn’t get him out. Said we needed an unspeakable.” A nod is all he gets before Blaise walks past him. He knows the way.

 

Blaise greets Dean in a polite, but cold manner. Dean is just glad for the break and continues resting against the wall. When the hallway fills with magic, Draco and Dean close their eyes and brace against it. It is a full-out assault on the wards around the room and while the words said are incomprehensible from where they stand, Draco is curious as to the spells being cast. He tries to step closer, but Dean pulls him back. The air grows thicker, more difficult to breathe. Blaise’s magic is crackling across their skin and they jump as a door hinge lurches away from the frame in protest. The wards are holding everything together and Draco will have to repair the damage afterward.

 

Everything bows inward for a solitary breath, then exhales as the magic releases—that of Blaise and Harry. The destruction is fantastic. Draco rushes forward but is halted by a steady arm in front of his waist.

 

“Let me check for more.” Draco gives a curt nod, allowing Blaise to enter the room. Dust settles around them.

 

One of the doors flew into the hallway and one is partially bent toward the room. Many of the shelves near the door are unsettled and their contents lay on the floor. Blaise returns from the room with pursed lips.

 

“He’s asleep at the table.”

 

“I—”

 

“I don’t want to know. We’re done.” The finality in the words strike Draco like a fist. Blaise turns on one heel and disappears, leaving Dean and Draco in the doorway to the library.

 

Draco takes another deep breath. “What the fuck has he gotten himself into now?”

 

Draco moves into the room, wary of debris littered across the floor. As he approaches the sleeping man, Draco holds out his wand. Surrounding him are hundreds of books on some of the darkest magic the Malfoy library can offer. Most are open, though some have obviously been tossed to the side. There are stacks upon stacks of tomes pulled and scattered in his vicinity. The book he’d been reading is beneath his open mouth. Drool seeps into the pages, thankfully not smearing any of the imperturbable ink.

 

“Harry?” Draco can smell the alcohol wafting from the pickled wizard.

 

Dean inhales sharply. “Is that—” One look shuts the other man up.

 

“Harry. Wake the fuck up.” He shakes the sleeping wizard and watches, disgustedly, as Harry falls off his chair. “Merlin save me. I might kill him myself.”

 

“Draco?”

 

“May I help you, Dean? I’m kind of in the middle of something?” It’s a question, though he didn’t intend it to be.

 

“What is Harry Potter doing locking himself in your library?” His voice rises a bit, unsure of what his world has just become.

 

“He’s not who everyone thinks he is. Even himself.” Draco reaches down to grab the unconscious man-child. When he is unsuccessful at picking him up off the floor, Draco calls for Tovo. She appears instantly.

 

“How can Tovo help Master Draco?” Her eyes lock on Harry and wince.

 

“Get him to bed.” She nods sadly, disapparating them to Harry’s chambers. “Thank you, Dean. I will see you,” Draco glances at his watch, “in a few hours.” Dean nods and lets himself out.


	14. Chapter 14

She opens the door carefully, soft fingers turning the knob, practiced with keeping the manor’s protests at bay. There is no sign of him as she enters the bedroom until her slippered feet step around the bed. He is there; tucked just there, in the corner behind the canopied frame, is Harry. His arms are at his sides, but his knees remain pulled tight to his chest, chin resting between them. She takes a slow breath, stepping past him toward the window. It is here that she summons daybreak into the world.

 

It is subtle, but the presence of another person’s breathing, magic, life, is enough to stir Harry from sleep. One hand shields his red-rimmed eyes while the other braces his body against the floor, the world, for the assault he is sure to come. That’s when he sees her.

 

Bathed in golden light, he blinks rapidly at the vision he is sure cannot be real. Before him stands a ghost. His body reacts before his words; eyes flare open, mouth reels and twitches, then his magic comes pouring out toward her in a somewhat-controlled stream of hexes and curses. Her wand is up, easily tossing each aside as she walks toward him.

 

“Malve.” She says the name carefully, gently. Beside her appears a house elf dressed in a miniaturized wrap, reminiscent of paintings he’s seen somewhere but can’t place. He barks a laugh at the odd pair in the glow of the room. “Malve, I need a calming drought for Mr. Potter, if you would.” The little elf nods and disappears, quiet as a wisp. Before him, the woman stands, wand out, palms open toward the ground. A vial is given to her when the elf returns. She steps forward, but Harry panics, crab-walking backward as far in the corner as he can manage. When he can move no further, his hands come up and Malve steps forward, finger pointing at him.

 

“You will not harm Mistress!” The knobby finger waggles in his face and he stares, cross-eyed, at it. “You will take it, if Mistress says so.” She grabs the vial, thrusts the swirling liquid at him and he uncorks it. He stares from the elf upward to her mistress and nods before swallowing the contents. “Good boy.” She takes the cork out of his curled fingers and steps back. “Does Mistress need anything else?”

 

“No, Malve. I think we are all right now.” Then they are alone, just as the drought starts to kick in and his body melts toward the floor. “Let’s start from the beginning, shall we?” He nods, staring open-mouthed now. “You are Harry Potter, but I think you remember at least that much.” Her warm chuckle confuses him. For a moment, he thinks she will strike him, but she only moves the hem of her gown to the side and sits on the edge of his bed. “My name is Narcissa. We’ve met.” Harry looks at her face as if the name she’s given makes her a new thing—a new creature. He strips away the image of Bellatrix and there stands the woman before him; the woman who saved his life once.

 

“Narcissa?” He barely gets the word out; his throat is raw and dry.

 

“Yes. Draco is my son.” It begins to make sense again, and he lets the drought pull him fully into the floor, sinking his bones through his skin and grounding him. “We are at Malfoy Manor. You are here because Draco brought you here. Do you remember him bringing you here?” Harry shrugs, noncommittal.

 

Narcissa purses her lips, but continues, “Draco brought you here after Ginny Weasley cursed you—well,” she amends, “ _failed_ to curse you is a better way to phrase it, I suppose.” Words, conversations, images all start scrambling back to him. He’s tapping his thumb rapidly and fears that his heart will thump directly out of his chest before he can gain any control over his body. “Harry.” She waits. “Harry, she’s in a rehabilitation program, now. There has been a restraining order placed on your behalf by the Weasley family.” Harry’s features contort to mimic the memories flooding back to him. He sees Ginny the first time he arrives at The Burrow. He sees her in the Chamber of Secrets. He sees her running toward him after a game of Quidditch. He sees her leaning in to kiss him. He sees her body fading away and her eyes staring at him, dead, as she comes home smelling of another man and another dream.

 

“No. No, no-no-no-no-NO!” He’s thrashing, but the calming drought slows everything down. He barely moves hard enough to leave a red mark on his forehead when he tries to break open his skill. Perhaps if he frees the memories, they won’t hurt so much. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. The blood pounding in his head pools behind his eyes. He looks to Narcissa. “Why?” The anguish in his voice is awful and she cannot answer him. She closes her eyes, takes another deep breath and sits fully upright.

 

“When was the last time you bathed, Harry?” Beneath the light, she looks over his clothes, the pure filth of his body only streaked by sweat. Harry, too, looks at his body. He turns his hands over, inspecting his fingers. The skin cracks at the joints, opening and closing. His elbows and knees are a playground for dirt and sweat and messier things. When he tilts his chin to see his shirt, he sees that it is stained in great, greasy spots. There are discolorations and tears and holes and Harry feels he has to get out of these rags _right now_ , but is embarrassed at the state of his body. How did he get here? Watery green eyes look up at Narcissa as he clings to the hem of his shirt, and she can see his body wracked with tremors. The breath comes quickly and she moves to save him—but doesn’t know if it’s too late.

 

“Malve?” The elf peeks around her shoulder. “Please take Harry to the bath. See to him. I will get him some clean things.” She nods, steps forward to take Harry’s hand, but his breathing increases and he’s digging his heels into the floor. Narcissa’s hand on his shoulder, the other resting—just resting, in his hair, calms him somewhat. “You are safe, Harry. You are safe.” She turns to Malve, then. “You’ve taken care of all the babes in this manor; this one is no different.” A soft nod is all she gets before Malve half-drags Harry to the bath. Narcissa tries desperately to hold back the tears; instead she moves toward the window to let the sun fall across her aching eyes.

 

++

 

 

Small, waif-like fingers wrap around his wrist and tug him forward. Malve lights several candles around the bath and closes the door behind them. Once inside, Harry is tapping the thumb of his left hand against his right elbow and it’s a slow, steady comfort. He closes his eyes, leans against the wall, and sinks down. Malve is working some charm he’s unfamiliar with on the valves of the bath and he hears water flooding the tub. It’s soothing as steam envelops him, begins to loosen his body and peel away layers of filth.

 

“Mister can take his clothes off. The bath is ready.” He’s pulled from his trance by the sound of her voice. She isn’t so much quiet as she is soft, and he feels safe with her. Old habits force him to turn away. His clothing hits the floor and he steps carefully toward the half-raised tub. Malve busies herself with a snap of the fingers and the pouring of several drops into the bath water. The ragged clothes vanish and in moments, the room smells of pine and fresh-cut grass—familiar smells. He floats absently for a moment before tiny hands are scrubbing feverishly at everything that is caked on his skin.

 

A generous dollop of soap cards its way through his hair and he lets escape a moan. Each swipe of her fingertips feels like a massage he’s desperately needed. She takes his hands, arms, toes and carefully ministers to them with a flannel. In between the little crevices, she takes no argument about washing every bit of him. Harry is beet red after nails, flannel, and fingers have worked him over, but Malve smiles as she stands beside him.

 

“Deep breath.”

 

“Whu—OH!” He is plunged deep into the bath. She repeats this several times, scrunching about in his hair and flinging soap bubbles everywhere. He flails each time she thrusts him below the water line, but there is nothing to be done. When she allows him to stand, his skin is abraded and angry. She begins lathering lotion to every part of his worn, abused body. He grabs a towel when she’s done, thankful for the reprieve, when Narcissa walks in. She looks him up and down, giving an appreciative smile to Malve.

 

“Thank you, dear.”

 

“Anything for Mistress. This one needed it. Shame on Tovo for letting him get this way.” Her nose wriggles and Narcissa laughs. It is a warm, throaty laugh, and Harry pulls the towel tighter about himself.

 

“Here are some clothes, Harry. Please come out when you are ready.” Harry nods, then looks away as she leaves. Malve follows.

 

On the counter are a pair of Muggle jeans and a grey jumper along with a pair of navy socks. He can’t recall Draco wearing anything similar, so he shakes his head, wondering whose clothes he’s about to put on. Surprisingly, each item fits as it wraps snugly against him.

 

A deep breath precedes his entrance back into the room. He blinks several times to see the bright light of the sun again, followed by clean linens on his bed and food on the table in the corner. Rather than the single chair that had been there the night before, he sees two; one of which is now occupied by Narcissa.

 

Ever proper, she sits upright, hands in her lap, one leg crossed over the other beneath her robes. This leaves one slippered foot sticking out to the side of the table and Harry sees her as every bit the image of grace he expects the Malfoy family to exude. Walking closer, she gestures to the opposite chair. Harry takes it. There is a hesitant glance down at the empty plate, unsure if he’s allowed to eat. Narcissa watches carefully and begins serving herself. As food begins to move around the table, Harry fills his plate and digs in hungrily. He doesn’t notice anything until halfway through, when he finds her watching him, amused. His ears burn, but they continue eating in silence.

 

He’s eaten too much. Harry tries to stay perfectly still in the event his stomach tries to empty itself on the floor. Each time he breathes, he can feel a week’s worth of food pushing against his swollen belly.

 

“Are you enjoying your stay here, Harry? Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?” The only response she receives is a grunt. He’s focusing too much on not moving. By the time her words are fully understood, he is alert and his stomach is rolling.

 

“Would you like to return to Grimmauld Place?” This time, he shrugs. She straightens the cloth napkin on her lap, then looks him straight in the eye. “Do you remember the night Voldemort died?” Her voice is clear, unfazed by the weight of the name she brings to light.

 

Harry stops. He stops breathing, moving, thinking. The blood drains from his face and he fears that his heart has stopped beating. The one thing moving is his stomach, which flips back and forth with the anxiety he’s pooling at the center of himself. A deep breath—but it’s too late. He turns to the side and vomits on the carpet.

 

“I’m s-sorry,” he stammers, but Narcissa waves her hand, banishing the mess without a word or wand.

 

The staring continues. She is resolute and she waits until Harry begins to crumble beneath the weight of it. It doesn’t take long and then the words start to come.

 

“I-I remember everything,” he begins. “I remember coming into the castle and seeing the way everyone looked. They were all so broken. I remember the dead, lined up in the great hall. Some were covered, but there weren’t enough sheets. There was a fifth year whose job it was to transfigure napkins into sheets, but she wasn’t moving fast enough and the bodies kept coming and there were too many. I-I don’t remember her name.” The pitch of his voice escalates, rises until it turns into a wisp that disappears into the room. He is panting, gripping the table, staring at his empty plate, but he continues. “When they broke through, when the bridge dropped and the trolls came in, _oh gods the trolls_ , we tried so hard to find him…” Here, he looks up at her, a desperation in his eyes that, if he can only get the words out, everything will be all right. She waits.

 

“Once we figured it out, we tried to get to him before… I used the connection and we figured out where he was but… it was too late. We were too late.” Harry’s legs are jumping violently beneath the table and the silverware are scattering, but still, she waits. “Why did it take too long? We lost everyone! If I’d have just killed him sooner, none of this would have happened!” He is sweating now, his breath coming harsh and short. He rubs one hand across his chest as if to keep it moving, keep the ache from penetrating. “Dumbledore or Sirius or Fred or… or any of them! We could have saved them. Teddy would have parents! And they killed… they killed… _Dobby._ ”

 

The last name is said so very softly that Narcissa can feel her own heart break. Harry slips to the floor and then she is there, arms around him. She leans over his jumbled skeleton and whispers, “No one blames you, Harry.” He sobs harder. They remain there, beneath the table of half-eaten food for hours; just a pair of broken things.


	15. Chapter 15

Cradling Harry in her arms feels so much like holding Draco after the war. They’d grieved and wept for everything they’d lost. Narcissa weeps openly now against Harry’s unruly hair. She lets tears fall for Harry’s losses, for Draco’s, for her own. She mourns the world she thought she knew.

 

After a while, Harry’s shoulders stop shaking and the grip on her knee slackens. His breathing evens out and she hesitates before moving. Licking her lips, she gathers her voice with a soft cough and shakes him. He doesn’t respond. She leans down to whisper his name, a soft, “Harry” falling from her lips. At this, he winces, lifting a hand to rub the soreness from his eyes.

 

“Harry? Let’s get you to bed.” She attempts to help him up, but he rolls away. Narcissa waits before asking, “Do you need—” She stops. Of course he does. A nod and she moves toward him, helping him up with an arm beneath his own and steadying the shaky boy until his legs hold his weight.

 

He doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t. Harry turns lost eyes to her and she smiles the smile of a woman who’s done this many times before. She squeezes his elbow and walks him toward his bed. He climbs in; she pulls back the covers and rearranges them. She breaks a little as he systematically pulls every part of himself closer, tighter until he is forgotten beneath the weight of the blankets.

 

Thus cocooned, Harry is quickly asleep—but he’s restless.

 

He rolls about in the bed, searching for something, someone. Narcissa summons Tovo to watch over him while she excuses herself to her chambers. She passes Draco on the way. Her son looks about ready to question her disheveled robe and swollen face, but she dismisses him, leaving the bewildered blond in the wake of her escape.

 

Nearly nine hours later, Malve arrives in her chambers.

 

“Where would Mistress prefer to eat?”

 

“I will be dining with Harry,” she responds. “Thank you Malve.”

 

“A light lunch will be served in ten minutes, mistress.” Malve bows and exits the room.

 

Given her cue, she takes a deep inhale of the air streaming in from the balcony before closing the doors. Then she makes her way back to Harry. He is still asleep, muttering and twitching uneasily, but she sees that Malve has already laid out toast and tea. She smiles absently. It’s been some time since she’s eaten, but her stomach is queasy and light fare will suit.

 

Narcissa approaches the bed with caution. One hand is out while she calls his name.

 

“Harry? It’s time to wake now, Harry.” She steps forward to place a hand soothingly on his shoulder, or at least where she supposes his shoulder is beneath the mound of blankets.

 

“Mrrrmmmm.”

 

“You need to get up Harry,” she coaxes. “I’ve brought tea.”

 

He sits up then, moving away from her. His knees are up to his chest and he’s scanning the room.

 

“Come, now. Let’s eat.” Narcissa says it calmly, but it is more of a demand than he’s used to.

 

She walks away, leaving the decision up to him. When she sits at the table and helps herself to some toast, he feels the grind of hunger crackle in his throat and joins her. Their eyes meet across plates of half-eaten toast and steaming mugs of tea for a moment, but nothing is said. Narcissa continues to stir the milk into her tea and Harry shoves toast into his mouth, leaving a swath of crumbs in his wake.

 

Harry doesn’t find it odd that his leg is unable to rest against the chair or that his wrist shakes each time he picks up his mug. Instead, he looks down into the swirling liquid and concentrates on how it will scald his tongue and how each time his thigh lifts, he is closer to the table, but each time it goes down, he is more grounded. It feels good to be grounded to something.

 

++

 

It seems an odd sort of arrangement, but Harry and Narcissa continue meeting for meals in Harry’s rooms. She tries on several occasions to bring him to the formal dining room or to one of the patios, but he steadfastly refuses.

 

After several weeks of this, she doesn’t show up for breakfast. Instead, Tovo arrives with a reserved smile and a small offering of eggs and sausage. She politely waits for him to finish, then retreats. Before he can question if Narcissa will return for lunch, Tovo disapparates. Harry withdraws to his corner by the bed. He’s not been here for some days now, but he feels safe with a view of the door and something between him and anyone walking in.

 

Thoughts are running wildly through his mind; everything from Death Eater attacks to Voldemort’s return and Harry is tapping—TAPTAPTAP against his knee caps. He starts to get overwhelmed, cocking his jaw out to the side and grinding his teeth, when she walks through the door.

 

“Wha—” Harry is confused, torn now.

 

“Harry?”

 

Narcissa looks around. At not seeing Harry by the window, she moves around the bed and sees him. Huddled back in the corner, she frowns.

 

“Harry,” she says softly. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Where were you?” His voice is small, nearly as small as he’s trying to be. It’s not small enough; it’s never small enough. He remembers the cupboard and the looming stairs and how they held him, shielded him. Here, he’s open and exposed and there isn’t a space tight enough to crawl into.

 

“I ate with Draco.” Her eyebrows are pulled together as she watches him rocking gently, trying to figure something out. “What are you doing? Why aren’t you watching out the window? Reading the paper?” She gestures to the issue of The Daily Prophet he’d received that morning.

 

“I couldn’t.” She waits for him to continue, but he doesn’t.

 

“Harry. We need to talk.” His mouth opens as if he’s about to start explaining everything, but she gestures him to silence. “You need to come out of your room. This isn’t healthy. I’m not forcing you to leave the Manor, but you cannot stay in this room.” Harry stares at her, open-mouthed once more.

 

“I-I-I can’t. I just can’t. I don’t know how. If I left then it could happen. It might happen. And then what would I do. Oh…” His face falls, his entire body still for a moment before he grips both of his knees and bashes them together. “You want me to leave.” He moves to crawl away, to fade into the wallpaper, but he’s having trouble getting beneath the pattern.

 

“Harry, stop.” Narcissa reaches out toward him and he shrieks. “Harry.” Her voice carries all the hurt she’s feeling because she doesn’t know how to fix this. “Why won’t you leave your room?”

 

He stares.

 

“I can’t,” he says simply.

 

“You can’t? Or you won’t?” She waits for an answer.

 

She pauses, listening to the things he’s unable to say. “I can’t. Too much. Down there—it’s too much.”

 

“When you were here before,” she starts, “what do you remember?”

 

She watches as countless emotions play across his face. He struggles to start, but manages the name, “Hermione.”

 

“So there it is.” As if she’s found the answer to everything, she nods. “Did her torture in this house bother you, Harry?”

 

All he can do is focus on his breathing, try not to panic and disappear.

 

“Does it bother you still?”

 

“Yes,” he barely croaks the word out. “I can hear her pain. I feel her screams. I dream it, sometimes.” He sinks back to his corner, slumping.

 

“You need to face that fear, Harry. You have faced a great many things, overcome challenges that would break many men.” She pauses to let him think. “You will come out of this room, Harry.”

 

“I can’t.”

 

“You will.” She stands and turns away from him. “Tovo. Malve.” In a moment, she is flanked by eager house elves.

 

“What can we be doing for Mistress?”

 

“Yes,” Tovo squeaks. “Anything for Mistress and Mr. Harry Potter sir.”

 

Narcissa laughs softly at their enthusiasm, then smirks as she looks at Harry. “Harry is to come out of this room. Drag him if you have to.”

 

Tovo looks up at Narcissa with dread. “Is Mistress sure? Mr. Harry Potter sir doesn’t want to be leaving; I be knowing that.”

 

“Yes. Out of this room and down the stairs. Meet me in the great hall.”

 

“Yes, Mistress!” Both elves reply.

 

As they descend on him, Harry turns in on himself. His arms come up to protect his face, but his legs flail as they get closer. One of them—he’s not sure which—manages to grasp an arm and pull it back. She’s strong, and this surprises him, throwing him off balance. While he’s distracted, the other slips behind him and throws a shoulder against his lower back. Between them, he’s hurled forward and sprawls on his knees. His mind is shutting down, so they begin dragging him by any piece of clothing they can grab. He’s making the process difficult by fighting any spell they try to use.

 

When that fails, they resort to a tethering spell. Malve moves forward and Harry is forced to follow. If he doesn’t walk, then his knees scrape and drag across the floor. The top of his feet slither back and forth with the heavy motion of his upper body. Tovo scurries beside him, hands clasped together in worry.

 

Harry makes it past the door frame before his breathing becomes erratic. The memories come back. He sees the staircase—not as it is, but as it _was_. He’s dizzy because his body is going down but he’s looking up and his feet are planted firmly on the ground, but he feels them swinging beneath his body. There is screaming. Hermione screams from the other room, but he also hears someone else—a man?

 

“Who’s screaming?” he asks. “Oh gods. Make it stop. Who’s screaming?” This time he says it louder. What he fails to realize is that he’s asking in his head and the screams are his own. Tovo hovers like a worried mother and Malve keeps moving forward. Harry doesn’t know how they don’t hear the _screaming_.

 

He hears the shattering of crystal and jerks violently against the spell. Malve’s steps falter. She turns back to look at him convulsing in mid-air. His arms are clutched at his ears and he’s silently screaming. He’s out of breath, heaving to get air back into his burning lungs. Malve frowns and cancels the spell, easing the boy to the ground. Narcissa is watching from the corner as Harry’s body tries to deal spasmodically with the input of what’s happening to him.

 

“Harry I want you to look at the room around you.”

 

“No,” he cries. “No, I can’t. She’s hurting her. She’s hurting her and there’s nothing I can do.” He’s weeping, clenching his eyes as tightly as he can.

 

“Trust me.” Narcissa pauses, waiting to see if it’s enough. She releases a sigh and kneels near him. “Open your eyes. I’m right next to you. Do you remember me talking to you like this that night?”

 

“No?” He’s confused again, trying to make sense of it all.

 

“Then open your eyes.”

 

He does. What he sees is not what he saw.

 

“But it’s—”

 

“Different?” Narcissa offers.

 

Harry doesn’t answer. Instead, he crawls forward so that he is beneath the chandelier. This chandelier is different, though. It has long, draping arms with candles adorning each flared end. The dark metal stands out distinctly from the glittering gold framework he remembers from before.

 

Narcissa stands back as Harry’s head jerks repeatedly, assaulted with fresh memories as he looks around the room.

 

“There were paintings on that wall.” Twitch. “And there was a chair,” he points, “just over there.” She nods.

 

Harry stands now, walking unsteadily toward the window. Velvet curtains drape open around large frames. “These were red before.” His hands wrap in the cloth, fingering the dusky grey. “But over here,” he mutters as he walks across the hall and stumbles, one foot curling under, but continuing in his awed exploration. “Over here was where…” He trails off.

 

Harry stops. “Hermione was here.” He crumbles to the ground and runs his fingers along the wood, feeling for her.

 

“It’s not exactly as you remember, is it?” Narcissa is next to him now.

 

“No.” He shakes his head sadly.

 

“After the war, we changed a lot of things. The first change was easy. We changed the things around us. Some of our dark artefacts were sold; we changed some aspects of our home.” She gestured to the room with an open hand. “The second was much harder. You see, we had to change ourselves. I think you know all about that, Harry.” She is at his level now, staring him straight in the eye when he looks to her.

 

“I’ve been through here. O-on my way out to the gardens, and it looked the same as before. I was drunk. I had to have been drunk.” His cheeks burn in shame and he looks down again. “I didn’t want to remember it.”

 

“Draco couldn’t walk through this room after what happened. We changed, Harry. We changed because we couldn’t stand to look at ourselves or this place.” Harry reaches out, tentatively, and takes her hand.

 

He swallows before admitting, “I’d like to, but I don’t know how.”

 

The tap-tap of his thumb is rapid as he falls apart; something old—desperate for something new.


	16. Chapter 16

Narcissa doesn’t wake him. She doesn’t come for breakfast—or lunch. Harry wonders if he’s done something wrong as the table remains empty, his door closed.

 

There is much pacing, mumbling, and the occasional return to his corner by the bed, but Harry makes it to the door. He reaches for the handle and finds it heavy. It doesn’t weigh much in his hand, but the decision feels like it’s pressing inward at his temples and he can feel the thump-THUMP of his heart as he questions everything about his life in the span of a minute.

 

He spins it. The action is simple. His fingers wrap around the brass, grasp it snugly, and twist. Then he’s stuck again. The click of the mechanism in the door pulls him from whatever place he’s gone and he pushes forward. The hall is bright. Afternoon sun flushes it with warmth and as his toe tests its boundary.

 

Heel follows wiggling toes and Harry is moving gingerly toward the stairs. With one hand on the rail and another clenching and un-clenching rapidly at his hip, he takes a deep breath and plunges downward sharply. There is only one stumble from which he recovers quickly. Feet firmly on the floor again, Harry’s breathing begins its steady increase. He closes his eyes and remembers aloud, “She’s not here. It’s not here. He’s _not_ here.” He says this mantra several times before attempting to find what he’s looking for.

 

By the time he’s found it, he’s out of breath. He takes a few shaky steps toward the patterned glass before she’s spotted him. At first, he thinks she will point out the obvious; she doesn’t. Instead, she continues to eat her quiche, only looking up from the newspaper to slide him a plate. Harry is relieved. The tension withers away and he falls into the seat knowing that, out here, she expects nothing more than she did inside.

 

They don’t speak. They don’t really look at one another. Narcissa picks her way through a small offering of fruit as the last crumbs of quiche fall to the napkin on her lap. Harry attempts to be polite. He takes a small helping of quiche followed by a serving of grapes. After some consideration, he feels hungry enough to take two helpings of quiche, watching for reproval, but finding none.

 

Steadily the food disappears. Narcissa flips through the paper as if he’s not sitting across the table, sweating her impending disapproval. It isn’t until the last swipe of his napkin that she puts the paper aside and smiles. Her gaze travels upward to a balcony overlooking the patio. There, she sees Draco watching the interaction intensely. She smirks to him, stands, and leaves Harry at the table with a soft squeeze of the shoulder as she walks past. Draco turns away, disappearing from Harry’s line of sight as Narcissa does the same.

 

As Harry returns to his room, stride steadier on the stairs, he keeps his gaze to the floor. That’s why he nearly runs into Draco outside his room. The young Malfoy stands in his doorway across the hall. Harry is frightened, catching himself just a moment before bashing his head against the wall. He scrambles to grasp the door, to turn the knob—all those things he fought to do earlier. When the door opens, Harry turns back to Draco, who tilts his head silently toward Harry, the broken man escaping into the darkness of his room.

 

++

 

They begin to form a schedule of sorts. Breakfast comes to Harry’s room, where Narcissa joins him at the small table by the window. At lunch, Harry leaves the sanctuary of his room to seek out Narcissa at one of the various patios of the Manor. Typically, they eat in silence.

 

Sometimes, however, she asks him about things he doesn’t want to remember. There are days when he says nothing. When he does this, she lets him be. When he does offer something, she leans, pushes just enough that he starts talking and the talking turns into something else—some other emotion that he needs to feel, be it anger, grief, rage, loss, or emptiness.

 

On one such morning, Harry surprises her by laying down his napkin and waiting until she stops to look at him. In the hush of the room, tucked away from the world, Harry asks a question.

 

“Narcissa,” he begins. “What happened to Lucius?”

 

She is not prepared for this. She should have been, but she is not. Her façade slips just enough that Harry sees something beneath the etiquette and social grace.

 

He has also learned to lean, as she does, but he is not as subtle. “I know that he never made it to Azkaban. Can you tell me what happened?” _Oh no_ , Narcissa thinks. Harry does not push—he storms in and batters at her until she has tears streaming down her face.

 

The normally stolid woman lifts the napkin from her lap to catch the stray emotion.

 

“He was hunted,” she says quietly. “They weren’t Aurors, hired wands, or even Azkaban guards. They were my own family, Harry.” Here, she pauses to look down at her lap, twisting the napkin. “Not our blood relatives, of course, but other Death Eaters. You understand.”

 

Harry nods.

 

“Lucius was a traitor and they wanted to show the world. He made it to Denmark before they found him. There… there, they branded him. They took his clothing and cast the _Imperius._ They used the _Cruciatus_ until he couldn’t stand anymore.” She’s sniffing now, unable to withhold the memory. “They beheaded him, Harry. Naked and filthy; forced to walk through the streets of Denmark—they beheaded him.”

 

Harry isn’t sure how to comfort her, so he stands and moves closer. She looks up at him and he has tears sliding down his cheeks, too.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry. This was my fault. Maybe Lucius would still be alive if—”

 

She slaps him.

 

“Do _not_ pity yourself!” she growls. “Lucius’ death is _not_ yours to claim! He is _mine_ and I will keep him!” The escalation of her voice startles Harry and he steps backward. “I did not protect what was mine and now he is gone. I will _not_ make the same mistake again.”

 

Harry is confused until he remembers that another Malfoy scion sleeps just across the hall. Harry nods, hearing her words, even if he can’t fully understand them.

 

“They are ours,” he whispers as he reaches for her hand.


	17. Chapter 17

They are already eating when Harry walks into the room. Draco and Narcissa look up from their dinner in surprise. Harry’s wearing a more formal shirt along with a pair of trousers that are a step above his usual ratty jeans. He ducks his head from the doorway, scratching the back of his neck. When he looks up at Narcissa, he’s hopeful, but not overly so.

 

She clears her throat softly, looking to Draco. The other man hasn’t moved since Harry arrived.

 

“Oh, uh, would you like to join us, Harry?” Draco asks, still in a bit of shock.

 

“If-if it’s all right with both of you,” he manages after a moment, “I would like to join you for dinner.” Draco nods and gestures at a chair across from Narcissa.

 

Once Malve is busy serving Harry, Draco and Narcissa pick up their idle chatter again.

 

“Are you sure that you need to work on that case, Draco?” she pauses to wipe away a drop of sauce. “I realize that working under Minister Shacklebolt means a lot to you, but you don’t have to take every case he gives you, surely?”

 

Draco rolls his eyes. “No, mother. I do, however, have to work on all the cases which involve my prior cases. This one links up to that niffler smuggling ring a few months back. You remember the one?” He’s wrapping noodles around his fork expertly; not a drop of sauce hits his plate.

 

Harry eats in silence as the two banter. Their conversation is easy, familiar. He smiles when Narcissa puts particular emphasis on the empty, meaningless habits of Draco’s love life, and nearly chokes on a piece of chicken when Draco’s retort has something to do with the bloke she shagged in the kitchen a few days ago.

 

Her laughter rings out across the room. Harry’s ears burn and he concentrates very hard on spearing the last piece of chicken sluicing its way across his plate. Narcissa notices this and nods her head toward him. Draco sighs and sets his glass down.

 

“Harry, do you need anything?” The question is so bland that even Harry can feel how forced it is.

 

The piece of chicken continues to be stubborn as Harry blushes a deep shade of magenta. “What? Oh, no. I’m okay, thanks.” He finally gets it on the end of his fork and shoves it in his mouth. When the idea hits him, he’s mid-chew and the words are a tangled mess.

 

“Wha-bo-Her-n-Rn-cn-vizz?” Harry looks up to Draco with wide eyes, but feels tears start to come when he slaps the table and guffaws.

 

“I’ve no idea what you just said, Potter. Do finish chewing before you try again.” He wipes the mirth from his eyes and waits out the rumbles of hilarity until Harry is up to speaking.

 

“I was wondering if Hermione and Ron might be able to come for a visit?” His thumb is tapping against his thigh under the table. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. As Draco opens his mouth, Harry squeezes his thigh to keep it from jerking out of the chair.

 

“If they want to, I don’t suppose why not.” He shrugs.

 

Harry smiles then; it’s a big, dopey smile, but it’s genuine and he hasn’t felt the need for one in a while. Narcissa looks between the two boys before responding with a quiet smile of her own.

 

++

 

The nerves are rattling through him like an electric storm. Each time he reaches the end of the room, he spins and begins the trek anew. His fingers fidget with the hem of his shirt; he catches himself only to start again.

 

“Would you chill the fuck out?” This is from Draco. This is not the first time he’s said it.

 

Harry’s been waiting nearly two weeks for Draco to arrange this visit and now that it’s finally time he has no idea what to do. At first, he thinks about stealing some whiskey from the open bottle near Draco’s elbow. That thought is quickly discarded as he’d sworn it off a month ago, and now he’s really trying to stick to that conviction. He’s refusing any sort of calming draughts as well. After his first breakdown with Narcissa, he understands what happened with Ginny and doesn’t want to tempt fate.

 

The Floo comes to life and he runs forward. He shoves his fingers through the tangles in his hair then straightens his jumper. All at once, Hermione is there with little Rose and she’s smiling—smiling at him—and he can’t help it. He rushes toward them and they are enveloped in a hug when Ron stumbles through, nearly knocking them all to the ground.

 

“Ronaaaaaald!” Hermione chastises him.

 

Ron’s ears turn a bit red, but he grins and cuffs Harry on the shoulder.

 

“Can I hold her?” Harry whispers to Hermione as he steps back.

 

“Sit down.” She nods, pointing to the couch.

 

Harry moves quickly, almost too quickly. He flops down and has to rearrange the jumper that’s ridden up his back before reaching up for the baby that’s lowering toward him. In his arms, Rose laughs and giggles and makes strange words that have no meaning, but Harry talks to her as if they’re having an everyday conversation. He practically ignores Hermione and Ron for the half hour he’s holding the oldest Granger-Weasley child, but when they mention Hugo, he looks up to Ron. His best friend is beaming with pride.

 

“He’s such a chubby little sprog. You should see him, Harry. Mum and dad are in love. They’ve got him now.” He looks bashful as he continues, “We figured it’d be less overwhelming with just one of them at first.” Harry nods, grateful they are there at all. “Hermione, I think she’s snared her first victim, this one has,” Ron chuckles as Harry rubs noses with Rose.

 

Narcissa laughs from across the room. Ron and Hermione jump.

 

“I won’t bite, you know,” she chides them, her trademark smirk in place.

 

Ron leans over and whispers, “No wonder where ferret got it from!”

 

Harry laughs and he’s too overcome with emotion to hold everything in. He sees Draco come back into the room and looks up, tears in his eyes. He whispers, “thank you,” before placing a kiss on Rose’s forehead.

 

Not long after, Ron and Hermione return through the Floo to pick up Hugo and head home. Harry wipes his eyes, but can’t get the smile to fade. He nods once to Narcissa as he leaves the room, then retreats upstairs.


	18. Chapter 18

They don’t see him for several days.

 

“Draco,” she begins, in her motherly you-have-chores-to-do voice, “I want you go to check on him.”

 

Draco narrows her eyes and huffs loudly. “Why don’t you go check on your pet?”

 

The look she returns is one reserved solely for defiant children. He doesn’t bother to return words; instead, he tosses his napkin on the table and stalks upstairs.

 

He finds Harry on the chaise near the window. There is something fluttering in the trees that seems to have his rapt attention; he’s standing directly next to him before Harry stirs even a centimeter.

 

“Do you need something?” Harry asks. “Did I do something wrong?”

 

Draco is taken aback by the worry in Harry’s voice and posture. His appearance seems to be incredibly startling to the other man.

 

“No. We haven’t seen you for a while. I’m here to make sure you’re,” he pauses and looks Harry up and down, “still alive.”

 

“Oh. Well, I’m still alive I guess.”

 

“I can see that, Potter,” Draco drawls. “Why haven’t you been meeting my mother for lunch?” Draco leans against the couch, hip cocked to the side, nonchalant as ever.

 

“I needed some time. Some time to,” he looks out of the window again. “To think, I guess.”

 

“Do you want to go back to Grimmauld?” Draco asks.

 

“Do I have to right now?” Harry panics at this, right hand gripping the edge of the chaise while his toe taps rapidly against the inside of his other leg. “Merlin, Draco. I’ve been here too long. I need to pay you for everything. Fuck. Why didn’t I think of that?” He begins retreating into himself.

 

“Harry, stop. You don’t owe me anything.”

 

When Harry doesn’t respond, Draco moves forward, grabs each of his wrists, and stills them. Harry’s gapes like a fish as he stares. Draco’s pert mouth is pulled taut in concentration. His hair parts at an angle and then is tossed casually to one side. His eyes are the intense grey of an oncoming storm. Harry picks these things out in the span of thirty seconds as his mind whirls with information.

 

“Harry, you can stay as long as you like. I’m asking you what you want to do.” When Harry doesn’t respond, Draco continues. “Why you’ve stopped coming out of your room—”

 

“I want—” Harry takes several deep breaths, feeling the pressure of Draco’s fingers wrapping tighter around him. He shivers. The contact is too much. “I need—I just—” He struggles to get the words out. “I need some time.”

 

Draco stares intensely at him for a moment before letting go.

 

“You can have as much time as you like. Let me know if you need anything else.”

 

Harry nods. As soon as Draco releases him, he curls up into as small of a ball as a grown man can.


	19. Chapter 19

He’s just about ready to move into the hall when he sees it—the glint of it, fresh on skin. Drops of it slide down pale white arms. One of them slides off a fingertip and plinks, unknown, to the floor.

 

Everything is slow for a moment. Just a breath—a blink, an exhale. He watches enraptured as Draco storms through the hall toward his door, flings it aside, and tosses his stained robes into the ether.

 

Harry’s breathing begins to speed up.

 

He is trapped in his doorway. There was too much. Is it his? Whose is it?

 

“No. No. No-no-no-no.” He’s shaking his head and reeling back into his room as fast as his legs will carry him. The open door is forgotten. Harry scrambles into the bed and dives under the cover. There is a kind of solace in the darkness beneath a heavy blanket. He laughs.

 

“Blanket fort! Fort. HA. I’m safe now.” He’s laughing now, but the dry sounds coming from him are empty as he tugs the blanket up and over his chin. There is no meaning, no emotion, no point.

 

Harry pulls tight to himself and ensures that no light is visible before covering his eyes and drifting. Here, he does not tap; he doesn’t need to. His fingers are too harsh on the skin of his eyelids and the staccato thump-thump of his blood is enough.

 

Hours have passed as Harry continues to sleep. His legs are restless and kick out against the terrors of his mind.

 

Voldemort grabs his wrist. Thin, pale fingers wrap around him and he freezes just long enough to lose his balance. Then they are tussling in the air, falling-falling- _falling_. Spinning and thrashing, and he screams, but all that happens is a great weight landing atop him and the screaming stops. He can’t scream with Voldemort pushing the air from his lungs and he’s scared— _yes_ , he’s so terrified the screams are fighting the weight and threatening to come out his ears—but he feels something rumbling around him.

 

His vision blurs and all he can see is a figure hovering above him, hands gripping his shoulders and holding him down so that he can’t move, he can’t run away from everything he’s been trying to fight, trying to defeat. The man atop him shakes his head and he’s saying something Harry can’t quite make out, but as the fringe of blond—blond?—hair moves, he realizes it’s Draco. _Oh_.

 

“Hold the fuck still,” is all he hears.

 

They are both breathing too rapidly for so close a space and Draco drops his forehead to Harry’s.

 

“Merlin, Harry,” he pants. “Just take a breath and calm- the- fuck- down.” He puts particular emphasis on the last few words.

 

Harry’s body goes limp. This is not Voldemort. This is not the night everyone died. This is Draco. This is an Auror who’s been keeping him alive despite his best efforts to the contrary.

 

When Draco’s breathing evens out, he looks to Harry. The fear is obvious. He begins lifting his knee to move away, but Harry reaches out and grabs his arm.

 

“Stay. _Please_.” He’s desperate, pleading.

 

Draco is confused. He exhales slowly, moving to Harry’s side. The other man’s eyes are wide as if he’s expecting Draco to make a mad dash for the door. Instead, Harry relaxes a little when Draco scoots to the head of the bed and just sits.

 

He watches as Harry burrows beneath the covers once more, his thin frame curling back into a ball. The choking sobs Harry lets out are less shocking than the hand he reaches out to place on Draco’s leg. Despite his irritation, Draco doesn’t move away. He doesn’t shake the hand off or ask Harry to move. He leans back against the bed and tries to think of anything but what he’s just seen—what he never wants to see again.

 

He nods off some time in the early morning.

 

When Draco wakes, he finds himself tangled in a mess of Potter’s hair. Apparently, he’d fallen to the side at some point and Harry moved into the body-shaped space he created. Draco tries not to sneeze while he lays there, the morning haze slowly retreating. He untangles his various limbs and watches as Harry swipes at the empty space, whimpering a little. Draco looks down and frowns. He retreats from the room quickly, passing a questioning Tovo as she enters Harry’s room with a breakfast tray. Draco keeps walking until he makes it to his room for a much-needed shower.

 

++

 

Exhaustion. While he slept most of the night, Harry feels little more than the scratching at his eyes and the empty, hollow feeling in his gut. Something is missing. He rolls over. The sheets are mussed in places he hasn’t slept. Then he remembers. Voldemort grabbing him. Draco’s face above him, keeping him steady. Reaching out to Draco in his silence; asking him to stay.

 

This is about the time Tovo enters with breakfast. His cheeks burn and he pulls the blanket taut about his neck.

 

She ignores him. “Mr. Harry Potter should be getting up, he should. Should be eating breakfast now.” Nodding, she moves around the bed, banishing his dirty clothes to the laundry.

 

He crawls out of bed to grab a pair of pajama pants and Narcissa walks in, pointedly ignoring the pair of them to sit at the table. She pours a glass of orange juice and begins serving toast with jam. Harry slides in across from her.

 

“Sleep well?” He doesn’t answer. Her eyebrow lifts, but she continues spreading jam on perfectly-browned toast. “All right then.”

 

Narcissa rattles on for a few minutes. For the most part, Harry tunes it out, shoving torn-off pieces of toast into his mouth.

 

He’s only pulled back in when he hears her say, “Tovo told me that Draco didn’t sleep in his room last night. I’m positive he was home.” The pointed look is too much.

 

“Excuse me. I-I need a shower.” He stands and walks to the bathroom, leaving her at the table with a full glass of orange juice and a half-eaten piece of toast.

 

The Malfoy matriarch finishes her meal before leaving. When she leaves Harry’s room, he sends a _Finite_ to the shower and steps out. It surprises him to hear shouting coming from across the hall. While he can’t make out the entire conversation, he’s certain Narcissa is questioning Draco about the night prior. There is some heated back and forth before a door slams.

 

Harry sits in the corner for the rest of that day. Hands cover his ears and the slow, repetitive jut of his jaw turns into an aching neck and a migraine that won’t leave him.

 

Over the next couple of days, the only face he sees belongs to Tovo. This upsets Harry. He isn’t sure if he’s welcome at the Manor any longer. On the fourth day, Harry pushes away from the wall and begins to methodically sort his things. Items that are truly his are put in one pile; items belonging to the Malfoys or given to him are in another. His things he tucks into a tied-up jumper and heads toward the door.

 

Tovo intercepts him with a lunch tray in hand. She nearly drops it when he comes storming out into the hall.

 

“Tovo,” he begins. “I—want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”

 

“Mr. Harry Potter, sir? Where is you going?”

 

“Home.” The word feels like glue on his tongue, sticking to the roof of his mouth and tacky behind his teeth.

 

Tovo’s hands shake and Harry must reach out and steady the tray then. “You cannot go! Mr. Harry Potter must stay!”

 

She continues telling him how important it is that he stay the entire walk to the Floo. Harry reaches out for the bowl on the mantle, grabs some powder, and tosses it into the fireplace.

 

“Grimmauld Place,” he manages, unsure even then he wants to go. The flames come alive and Harry steps into them. He doesn’t—can’t look back.

 

Tovo drops the tray and wrings her hands before running upstairs.


	20. Chapter 20

There is an odor that he can’t quite place as he stumbles out of the Floo. Harry looks around. Dirty dishes lay among filthy clothing scattered about the room. His nose wrinkles out of habit at the sight. He can’t believe he lived like this. He can’t believe it ever came to _this_.

 

Harry’s shoulders square up as he inhales. His mouth comes together in disapproval and he begins the daunting task of cleaning his house. He banishes most of the surface items—all the trash, the clothing, and the old takeout. Some of the lingering smell fades once the rotten food is removed. Beneath that, he finds rugs that are too stained to salvage. Some of them he _Scourgifies_ repeatedly, but the worn threads just cannot handle the torment he’s subjecting them to. Those, too, are banished.

 

By the time he gets down to the basic furniture, Harry is exhausted. One of the couches is junk. Ginny had lain on it for so long without washing herself that the oils and reek of her body have sunk into the filling. Nothing he does will get it out. He first thinks about setting it on fire, but decides instead the rug underneath isn’t too damaged. _That_ he can save.

 

It’s nearing dinner when his stomach begins making itself known. He hasn’t eaten anything since breakfast and, at this point, realizes that cleaning is hungry work. Another sign of his absence from the house comes when he walks into the kitchen. Aside from the wretchedly foul stench of months-old dishwater, Harry finds his ice chest full of moldy food. Everything goes off to meet his couch in the land of banished things while he continues to hunt up anything he can eat. The cupboards give him the only thing left: a can of soup and a tin of crackers.

 

Harry does what he thinks anyone in this situation would; he ignores the soup in favor of the tin and makes his way back to the living room. There, he sinks down and bites into the first of many stale crackers. When his hand reaches in, rummages around, and comes up empty, Harry’s stomach isn’t satisfied. He sighs and leans back, trying to ignore thoughts of the meals Tovo brought him as he drifts off to sleep.

 

++

 

Knees crammed against his desk, Draco scribbles out notes from his fieldwork. The leopard flashes around his door, padding in front of him. When he cocks his head at the Patronus, Draco hears his mother’s voice.

 

“He’s gone.” The leopard blinks, then licks a front paw. It looks up at him and hisses. “You need to find him. Come home, Draco.”

 

“Fuck. Why now, mother?”

 

He waves the leopard off without a response. The nib of his quill bounces across his desk as he tosses it aside. Ink sprays wildly across the document he’s been so careful with. He considers the assignment he’d been given an hour prior.

 

“ _Expecto Patronum.”_ Draco speaks the words clearly; they echo in the small office. As the raven perches on the corner of his desk, he looks straight into its eyes and continues, “Mother. I can’t leave just at this moment. I’ll be home as soon as Shacklebolt will let me. You _must_ learn to keep a tighter leash on your pets.”

 

A flick of his wrist sends wings flying and all he sees is the trail of white. He works for another hour and a half before he can honestly tell his boss he has an emergency at home.

 

“What is it?” Shacklebolt asks.

 

“Potter’s run off,” Draco says dismissively.

 

Kingsley raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t know he was still living at the Manor. How is he doing?”

 

“He’s talking now. Coming out of his room like a good little boy. Too bad it sounds like he’s a runaway puppy and I’ve got to chase him down.” Draco’s sitting on the edge of a chair digging beneath a fingernail absently. “Merlin knows how I got dragged into this.”

 

Kingsley laughs. His full-bodied laugh consumes the room and Draco rolls his eyes.

 

“Yea. Have to go save the Golden Boy now. I’ll be in at eight.”

 

“See that you are,” Kingsley responds—half-serious.

 

Draco disapparates home to find Narcissa pacing near the Floo. Tovo hovers nearby, the edges of her garment frayed by tiny fingers.

 

“Draco!” Narcissa barks at seeing him saunter into the room. “You must find him.”

 

Four short words and Draco feels the need for a drink. He’s got the stopper out of the whiskey before she’s at his side.

 

“Tovo says he left in the morning. He took his things, but left anything we’ve given him.”

 

Draco stares hard at her for a minute. “Are you sure he didn’t _want_ to leave? Are you positive he’ll even want to be found?”

 

Narcissa takes a breath as if she’s about to say something, but Draco continues.

 

“Are you absolutely certain he didn’t leave because he wanted nothing to do with us anymore?” The glass in his hand slams down against the counter. “You and I know we were never good enough for him. Maybe he needs to find his own way.”

 

“How _dare_ you,” Narcissa hisses, voice dropping low. “You brought him here. You agreed to look out for him. You brought him back into _my_ life. Now _you_ need to stop acting like an entitled little bastard before something happens to him.” Her breathing is rapid and Draco takes a step back. “I would have left this house earlier to look for him, but you know just as well as I do that I can’t— _and_ why. Now go.”

 

With the last word, she walks away from him and sits down on the couch, pointedly ignoring him. Draco downs another glass before stalking over to the Floo. He glances over his shoulder when his hand fills with powder.

 

“Grimmauld Place,” he calls.

 

When she refuses to look at him, he steps through.

 

Harry’s home is not what he remembers. Some of the furniture has been rearranged and, while it still has a distinct odor, it is not the atrocity it was. He gets his bearings for a moment before spotting the mess of hair sticking up on the other side of the remaining couch.

 

When Draco steps around to get a good look, he stops himself from barking a laugh. Harry’s chin is flat to his chest. His hand is stuffed inside a cracker tin. One leg is bent against the back of the couch while the other sprawls open. He snores in tandem with the twitching of his left foot.

 

Draco shakes his head and grabs for the tin, setting it on a nearby table. He uses the toe of one boot to nudge the sleeping Potter awake. Harry jerks, not prepared to see Draco—also not remembering he’d come back to Grimmauld Place.

 

“Why’d you leave?”

 

Harry rubs the heels of his palms into his eyes. It doesn’t help the irritation, but he tries a second time just to be sure. It doesn’t help, so he stares at Draco with red-rimmed eyes.

 

“I didn’t think the Manor was the right place for me anymore.”

 

“Why the fuck not?” There is anger in Draco’s response.

 

“I heard you,” Harry replies. At Draco’s empty look, Harry continues, “I heard you and Narcissa arguing. I’m causing too much trouble. I-I would be better off here.” Harry’s now running his nails up his thighs then pushing his palms down. The gesture is anxious, worried.

 

“Fucking prat.”

 

Draco stands and is hovering over him. Harry cowers, arms raised, but all he sees is Draco’s arm reaching out to grab him. He’s hauled to his feet and continues to stumble as Draco fumbles for Floo powder in his satchel—Harry’s bowl is empty. Draco’s mumbling, but the words Harry understands make him groan.

 

“Malfoy Manor,” is all he hears before he’s shoved through.

 

On the other side, he falls to his knees. Narcissa is there, on the couch, chin resting on her knuckles as she watches the fire patiently. When Harry clears his throat and places a hand on the floor to steady himself, two things happen: Narcissa is at his side and Draco come through the Floo.

 

She clears her throat upon seeing Draco, who walks past her with a smirk.

 

“The bloody wanker didn’t feel he could stay at the Manor because it wasn’t the _right place for him_ ,” he scoffs.

 

Narcissa turns to look sadly down at Harry.

 

Draco continues, “Apparently we need to do more to make Harry feel at home, like take him on dates and give him flowers and court the fucking sod.” He leans down and grabs Harry’s shirt. “Is that what you need, Potter? Do you need flowers and poetry?”

 

Harry looks away. Narcissa steps behind Draco and wraps a hand about his shoulder.

 

“Enough, Draco.” She steps between them, then kneels, tossing her robe behind her. “You are always welcome here. You can leave whenever you choose, but I enjoy your company and I am absolutely certain Draco does too.”

 

Harry stares, failing to comprehend. He’s not sure if he’s not hearing correctly or if her words just aren’t making any sense. She smiles; it’s that mischievous smile she has when she’s pushing him.

 

He dusts off some of the soot and stands. After a quick glance between the two Malfoys, Harry walks out of the room and retreats to his room upstairs.


	21. Chapter 21

Harry resumes his breakfast routine with Narcissa. Most days he also joins her for lunch. The rest of his day is spent in his room or in the library wandering through various tomes, finger drifting until he comes across a title that catches his interest.

 

It’s one such afternoon when Harry’s curled up in a lounge chair, book open, fingers rubbing beneath his glasses. Many hours of reading have taken their toll on his eyes and he’s using the break to look around the room. He’s just back to it when the door opens. Draco stands there, dressed in his Auror robes. He clutches the edges of the door frame and assesses Harry.

 

“Potter. Get your cloak.”

 

Harry is too stunned to move.

 

“Did I stutter?” he asks. “CLOAK,” he draws the word out, followed by a short, “ _now_.”

 

Harry jolts in the chair. The book in his lap closes in on itself and he sets it aside. As he stands, his palms run down the jumper he’s wearing and looks back to Draco, but he’s disappeared. His sigh is heavy as he grabs a cloak from his room.

 

Draco practically runs him over as he opens his door.

 

“Took you long enough. Ready?”

 

He’s no longer wearing his work robes. Instead, he’s wearing sharp trousers, a grey jumper, midnight green robes that are of a stunning cut.

 

“Uh, where—”

 

Harry doesn’t get to finish. Draco’s hand is on his arm, a feral grin splayed across his face. Immediately, the lurch of disapparation turns low in his belly and he gulps in a deep breath.

 

When they land, they’re in front of The Hog’s Head. Harry looks around out of habit. Draco’s already moving toward the door and Harry stumbles a bit to catch up.

 

“Two, Aberforth.”

 

The barkeep sees Draco and sneers, grabs two grubby glasses and starts to pour. When Harry walks through the door, he looks confused—doubly so when he sits next to Draco.

 

“Why did you bring me here?” Harry’s leaning in toward Draco, whispering the words harshly.

 

“Grab your drink.” Draco takes a swig out of his and steps off the stool toward a table. Harry nods to Aberforth and follows.

 

“I’m serious, Draco. Why are we here?”

 

“I needed a drink. Why the fuck do you think I brought us to this _grand_ establishment?” Draco gestures to the room and several patrons look him over. Not all are amused.

 

“Why me?”

 

“You need to get out, Potter. Mother dearest says so.”

 

Harry blushes, but in the dingy light, he hopes it’s difficult to tell. “So you brought me because your mother told you to.”

 

“I don’t do everything mummy tells me to, Potter.” Draco takes another sip of his drink. “For Merlin’s sake, Potter, it’s only a Butterbeer. Drink it.”

 

Harry continues staring into the foam, then takes a drink. It burns; there is more staring.

 

Draco swipes the glass. “Aberforth. A pumpkin juice.” The grizzled man grunts and pulls out another glass. When he walks over to the table, he sets it before Harry.

 

Back turned to Draco, he asks, “Everything all right, Harry?”

 

“Oh. Um, yeah. I’m-I’m okay, Aberforth. Thank you.” Aberforth waits until Harry looks him in the eye. Harry lifts the pumpkin juice, takes a deep gulp, shakes the glass, and gives him a weak smile. Aberforth doesn’t buy it, but walks away anyway.

 

“I get that you needed to get out, but why me, and why not Theo or Dean?” Harry’s thumb is making circles at the bottom of his glass. The jumping of his leg beneath the table is causing ripples in his drink; he watches the expanding rings instead of Draco’s shifting eyes.

 

Draco’s laugh is silky. Harry doesn’t remember seeing him laugh much. He thinks it’s a bit odd, but the smooth tones ring through the room and roll over his skin and he smiles without thinking about it.

 

“You’re about the only person who can stand me, Potter,” he pauses. “And that’s on your good days.”

 

Draco toasts himself. They sit in silence and listen to the hushed dealings around them for a while until Draco asks a hard question.

 

“What happened, Potter?” Harry’s head tilts, his knee is still. “What happened that you went from bloody hero to,” here he sweeps a hand at Harry, “this?”

 

Harry is astonished, but looks at the rosy tint of Draco’s cheeks and the flow that’s coming from him now. After several harder drinks, he’s a bit drunk and relaxed.

 

“I don’t know,” Harry says quietly into his juice.

 

“Was it Weaselette?” Draco looks almost too interested now. “Did she take your balls and eat them? Have you got any left?” He laughs at himself.

 

Harry actually laughs back. “That’s an appropriate description of Ginny, actually.” He smiles, then sinks into the memories of what happened—what led him to staying at the Manor.

 

Draco wags his finger in Harry’s face. “Unh-uh. No thinking of her. You’re here with me.” He points to himself, as if he were the most important man in England.

 

Harry isn’t sure how to take that, so he doesn’t say anything.

 

“I hate myself, Potter.” Draco is now the one staring into a glass, though his is blessedly empty. “I don’t know why I became an Auror. You hate me. Everyone hates me. Maybe… if I help enough people, they’ll hate me less.”

 

He’s asking for another drink now and Aberforth raises an eyebrow at Harry. Harry shrugs. He’s rambling and Harry lets him.

 

“We all did stupid shit. Even you—” Here, Draco sits up and drops his chin. “Don’t say you didn’t.” Harry smiles in return, but Draco continues, “I nearly killed him. I had to do it. They would have—he would have—no one understood. But you understand.” He leans back, his words softening. “You understand.”

 

Draco’s head starts dipping and his forehead hits the table. Harry sighs, taking the last sip of his juice before rounding the table to poke at Draco. He isn’t moving, but he’s breathing. He digs in Draco’s pocket for some change and tosses it for the bill. Digging out a wand, Harry casts a lightening charm and hefts Draco partly on his shoulder. Crab-walking them to the Floo with Aberforth’s watchful eye over them the entire time, he calls out the Manor’s name and hurls them through.

 

They end up in a heap on the rug. Neither of them move for a while. When Harry’s arm begins to fall asleep, he attempts to wriggle out. Though Harry has his wits about him, he doesn’t say anything when a sleeping, drunk Draco grabs his jumper and holds him in place. He lay there with Draco’s head cradled on his stomach until morning.


	22. Chapter 22

Harry’s eyes open to something dreadful: Narcissa is sitting on the couch nearest them. He lifts his head to look at her before she realizes he’s awake. The movement gets her attention and she smiles. A finger lifts to her lips as she purposely looks to Draco. Harry has the grace to blush.

 

She holds out a small vial. Harry grips it with his free hand and sees the swirling liquid resembles Sober Up. She walks out of the room, leaving Harry to his own demons. He attempts to keep the thumb tapping to a minimum, but as thoughts come whirling back to the night prior, he has to stop himself several times.

 

Harry lays in agony for another half hour. Each time Harry watches Draco’s slow intake and release of breath, he prepares for the man to jump up, stumble away, and curse him for allowing his body to taint Draco with Harry’s personal brand of crazy.

 

When Draco does stir, it’s slow. He stretches his legs, fingers digging into Harry’s hip, and then he stills. Everything about him stops. He seems to be figuring out where he is, but he hasn’t looked up to see who he’s with yet.

 

“Fuck, Potter,” he croaks. “How the hell did we end up sleeping on the floor?”

 

Harry’s earlier blush returns. He can’t stammer out an answer that’s intelligible, so he holds out the vial. Draco takes it, downs the contents, then hands it back. His head falls back onto Harry’s waist. Harry doesn’t know what to do, so he lays there, afraid to breathe or move, or think too hard in case Draco decides to hex him.

 

The blond tilts his head up, looks once at the overwhelming fear in Harry’s eyes, and snorts. He shoves off Harry’s body, hears the grunt Harry makes as he does so, and says, “Sorry.”

 

Harry immediately curls up into a Potter-sized ball and waits for the inevitable Draco-sized explosion. It doesn’t come. Instead, he sits against the couch where Narcissa perched earlier and looks across at Harry.

 

“How did you manage to get me home last night?”

 

“Lightening charm,” he mumbles.

 

Draco nods. “All right then. Let’s go get showers and meet mother for breakfast.”

 

Harry is flabbergasted. Draco stands slowly and stares down at him, waiting until he gets up to follow. Draco merely saunters off to his own room while Harry walks crookedly and slowly across the hall.

 

After quick showers, the boys meet back up downstairs before heading out to the patio where Narcissa waits. She looks up from her newspaper with a smirk as they emerge from the Manor.

 

“Did you have fun last night, boys?”

 

“Lay off it, mother,” Draco scowls. “You know you gave me the weak potion this morning.”

 

She gives him a wicked grin then lifts the paper to read again, gesturing absently to the fruit, bacon, and fry-up laid out on the table. Harry tucks in hungrily, hoping to avoid any lengthy conversation about the previous evening— _or_ that morning. He just wasn’t that lucky.

 

The paper drops again. She takes her time folding it just right. Looking from one to the other she asks, “Where did you go last night?”

 

“Hog’s Head,” is Draco’s reply.

 

“Ahh, how is dear Aberforth these days?”

 

“The usual,” Draco says around a mouth full of eggs. Narcissa frowns.

 

Harry watches the verbal match over his fork.

 

“Harry, dear. Did you have a good time?”

 

Harry looks up at her and waits a moment; waits for the push. Nothing. He nods. Draco’s face is stone as he sits across the table. _I won’t tell your secrets. They aren’t mine to tell,_ Harry thinks. Draco looks relieved when Harry says nothing more, as if some sort of truce has been reached.

 

Narcissa seems to understand the game being played here and continues with her light chatter until they have finished breakfast, excusing herself for the afternoon. Draco and Harry sit in companionable silence until their plates are cleared and an owl calls Draco’s attention to another matter.


	23. Chapter 23

Narcissa is surprised to see Harry and Draco chatting quietly on the patio. An assortment of eggs, bacon, and fresh fruit sits beneath the umbrella. When they catch sight of her, Draco pours a cup of tea and Harry piles some of her favorites on her plate. One side of her mouth quirks at their actions, coordinated after several attempts over the last week.

 

“Good morning,” she offers.

 

“Mother.”

 

“Narcissa.”

 

“What are you up to today?” she wonders aloud.

 

Draco looks to Harry, but he knows the answer will be the same as it always is. Draco rolls his eyes and turns to his mother.

 

“I was hoping to get Potter out of his room long enough to play a seeker’s game.”

 

Harry’s eyes are alight with excitement and he sets his glass down a bit too hard, nearly toppling it.

 

“Do you mean it?”

 

“Of course, you idiot.”

 

He blushes like a child beneath Draco’s laughter and Narcissa chides her son. “Go easy on him, love.” Now to Harry, she asks, “How long has it been since you’ve flown?”

 

“Ages.” His shoulders slump and he turns the last bit of egg fluff over on his plate before stuffing it in his mouth.

 

“Well we have a professional pitch on the grounds, so you’re welcome to fly any time you like.”

 

Harry smiles again and this time, it’s just for her. “Thank you.”

 

“Mother, what do you have planned for today?”

 

“My hearing is this morning, Draco.”

 

Draco nods, but Harry looks between them, confused. “What hearing?”

 

“To lift my house arrest, Harry.”

 

“Oh,” is all he can say.

 

“I should return by ten at the latest.” She wipes her mouth with the cloth napkin and stands. Draco does also, moving between her and the door.

 

To her surprise, he leans in close, whispering, “Good luck,” and gives her a chaste kiss before pulling back.

 

She reaches up with one hand, touches her cheek where he kissed her, and nods before leaving.

 

“Are you ready for that game?” Draco’s leaning back in his chair, flicking his fork between thumb and forefinger.

 

“Well… it’s been a while, but I’d love to fly.”

 

“Scared, Potter?” Draco’s grin is maniacal and Harry looks up before the laughter starts. Draco chucks him on the shoulder, then runs inside to get changed. “See you outside in five!”

 

Harry scrambles to his room, throwing clothes everywhere. When he’s got on clothes he doesn’t care about getting filthy, he rushes back down the staircase and looks around for Draco. He’s met instead with Tovo’s giddy gestures. She’s pointing outside.

 

“Master Draco went to the pitch already, Mr. Harry Potter, sir. He said to take you there. Are you ready?” Harry nods and before he’s ready, Tovo takes his arm and side-alongs them both.

 

The Manor’s Quidditch pitch is more than Harry expected. He looks at the stands, which are constructed of dark wood and rise on both sides like demonic cheerleaders. The green is immaculate and the goal baskets are silver and green, both gleaming in the early-morning sunlight.

 

Draco hovers well above the pitch with something in his hand; Harry can only guess it’s the snitch. After watching for a moment, Harry looks around for a broomstick and finds one leaning against the stands. He calls it to him and flies up to meet his opponent.

 

“What are the rules?”

 

“First to catch it wins.” Draco tosses the unopened snitch up once, swiping it easily out of the air. “Count to ten before chasing. No rules for the chase.”

 

“O-okay.”

 

Harry is a little uncomfortable on a broom he’s never flown, without his Quidditch gear and on a pitch he’s never seen, but he swallows his fear. Draco releases the snitch and they both count to ten before flying in different directions, eyeing each other.

 

The snitch makes an appearance in front of Draco and he watches it for a moment before diving down. He’d seen it fly up, but he wants to throw Harry off, so he delivers a perfect Wronski feint. The maneuver backfires and he loses track of it. It does pull Harry in closer and Draco ends up circling around him several times before drifting away.

 

It’s an easy sort of drift and chase, laugh and sigh at the thrill of the wind. The first time one of them catches the snitch, it’s Draco and Harry blames it on lack of practice.

 

“Best two of three then, Potter?”

 

“Done.”

 

Harry shoots up away from Draco to watch for the release, but is lost in thought when Draco rocks his shoulder hard. This topples Harry over and he’s clinging upside down to his broom, managing to scramble back on before seeing the familiar glint of gold and ducking low. Draco also manages to spot it, but he’s a fraction too slow as Harry’s fingers wrap around it.

 

“Tied, now. What’s the prize?” Draco asks.

 

“Winner buys drinks?” Harry offers, laughing at the fluttering in his palm, the lightness in his chest.

 

“I’ll take that bet.” Draco moves off and waits. “Release it, Potter.”

 

Draco’s eyes narrow, but Harry takes his time. He closes his eyes, breathes in the magic around the snitch. Feels the weight in his hand, kisses the cold metal. When he activates the charm, he can practically follow the magic in the air and he strains to wait the agreed-upon ten seconds. His toes are rocking on the broom and it’s everything he’s got not to go rocketing off after it.

 

He feints first, trying to put Draco off the trail, but they end up broom to broom as the snitch darts and whirls in front of them. Draco’s laughing, but Harry’s holding his breath in concentration. As it turns out, that’s Harry’s downfall when he starts heaving for lack of oxygen. Draco looks back to be sure Harry’s okay, but only once the snitch is securely in his hand.

 

“You know, Potter,” Draco starts. “It’s typically easier to accomplish things if you’re still breathing.”

 

“Fuck off, Draco.”

 

“Ouch. He does bite.”

 

Harry laughs and drifts down to the green, allowing himself to sprawl on his back, broom at his side. Draco joins him, but sits upright instead of laying down.

 

“I haven’t felt this good in a long time.”

 

“Try wanking. Takes a load off.”

 

Harry’s laughter fills the stands and Draco just smirks at him. “It wasn’t that funny.”

 

“Takes-a-load-off.” Harry emphasizes each word slowly. “LOAD, Draco.” He slaps the ground as if it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

 

Draco joins him in laughter, but more so because it’s contagious.

 

This is how Narcissa finds them.

 

“Am I interrupting something?”

 

Harry sits upright, cheeks tinged a bright red. “No, ma’am. We were just finishing our load—oh, I mean our game.”

 

“Oh, Merlin, Potter. Get it right. We just finished three seeker’s games. I think he’s a bit light-headed.” Draco makes a vague gesture with his hand toward Harry, who cannot look at either of them.

 

“I see.” She waits, wondering if Harry will get over himself. “Well, my house arrest was lifted.” At this, Draco lurches to his feet and hugs his mother.

 

“That’s wonderful news!”

 

“Yes. I thought I would celebrate with a trip to Diagon Alley. There are a few things I’m in desperate need of. I thought I might enjoy a visit to Twilfitt and Tattings.”

 

“Let me get changed and I’ll accompany you.” Draco offers.

 

“No, Draco. I am not a child. I am finally free and I should like to be devoid of babysitters and chaperones. I’ve had enough over the last five years.” At his downtrodden look, she continues, “Thank you for offering. Maybe another time.” He nods. “I will see you two later. Make sure you shower before dinner.” Her nose wrinkles before turning heel and heading back to the Manor.


	24. Chapter 24

Three things happen at once: an owl from the ministry arrives, which Malve intercepts. A lynx Patronus appears in Draco’s room and a terrier Patronus similarly appears in the library, searching out Harry. Malve’s shrieking is heard upstairs and Draco nearly ignores Kingsley’s lynx to find out what the commotion is when he hears that familiar voice utter words he wishes he could forget.

 

“Draco, you need to come to the Ministry. There’s been an accident.” The words are simple, but Draco falls to his knees. He no longer has the inclination to see what Malve’s blustering on about or why Harry is battering at his door.

 

++

 

In the library, the terrier howls and circles him until he wakes up. Harry listens intently to Ron’s voice, but he’s not sure he’s comprehending what he’s hearing.

 

“Harry, you need to find Draco. We can’t get hold of him. Something happened. Fuck, mate. I don’t know how to tell you this. Narcissa’s dead. I’m sorry, Harry. We need Draco to come in. Shacklebolt sent his Patronus, but we haven’t had a response. Please, Harry. Bring him in.”

 

The terrier circles a few times, yips at him and he jolts out of his stupor.

 

On his way to Draco’s room, he hears the commotion downstairs, but he needs to get to Draco. He hammers against the door, but there’s no answer.

 

“Draco! You need to answer. Are you in there?”

 

Draco doesn’t—can’t answer.

 

“Draco. I can’t imagine what’s going through your head right now, but you need to go to the Ministry.” He leans against the wood, but knows that he’ll hear nothing. “Fuck.” He bangs his forehead against the wood, his breathing increasing and shaking out his hand before stepping back.

 

One deep breath—he takes one deep breath before gripping his wand and casting every unlocking charm he’s ever learned. When he’s done, he steps forward and thanks every god he knows that the door opens.

 

“Draco?” The other man is on his knees in the middle of the room. Fingers brush the carpet as his arms hang limp at his sides. He’s staring at nothing.

 

Harry rushes forward and gently grips his shoulders. He winces at the touch, but steadies himself. “Draco?”

 

Draco slowly lifts his head, one tear beginning to fall. “She’s gone, isn’t she?”

 

Harry nods, his own tears a constant stream of loss down his face. “We have to go talk to Kingsley.”

 

Draco starts to shake his head, but stops.

 

“You’re an Auror. You know how this works.”

 

He nods then, standing with Harry’s help. For the first time, Harry is scrambling around Draco’s unfamiliar room trying to find clothing and robes and shoes. Once Draco’s dressed, he ushers them toward the Floo.

 

“Ministry of Magic,” Harry calls out, then grabs Draco’s upper arm and walks them both through.

 

++

 

After an hour of explanation, the only thing clear to Draco is that his mother is gone. Harry’s taken in a bit more of the situation from his chair in the corner, but even then, his emotions play havoc with his ears. Ron looks at him throughout the meeting as if he’s unsure whether to cater more to Draco or Harry. Shacklebolt is sitting on the edge of his desk speaking in quiet (as quiet as a man of his stature can be) tones to Draco. His voice resonates through the room and etches images deep in the backs of Harry’s eyelids.

 

_Almost to Twilfitt and Tattings. Attacked. Not a Death Eater. Hate crime._

Hate crime.

 

“Did you catch them?” were the first words out of Draco’s mouth.

 

“No,” Kingsley tells him. “We have several witnesses, but they are telling us that the caster was using a Disillusionment spell.”

 

“So we have nothing?”

 

“I’m not saying that, Draco.”

 

“We have our best on it, mate,” Ron interrupts. “I know it doesn’t fix anything, but you should know that we’ve got the best on this.”

 

Draco glares at him. “And who, exactly, are you considering the best?”

 

“Myself, Thomas, Singer, and Unspeakables Nott and Zabini.”

 

Draco flinches at the last name, but nods. “Fine.”

 

“Right now, I think you should take care of your mother.” Kingsley reaches out a hand and grips Draco’s shoulder. Draco shrugs it off, standing and walking toward the door.

 

“This evening?” His tone is clipped and Harry doesn’t quite understand the exchange.

 

“In about an hour. Will you be ready?”

 

Draco’s face hardens, but again, he nods. When he opens the door, Harry must jog to keep up with him.

 

At the Manor, Draco is anything but calm. He’s directing the house elves to open the crypt and light candles. They scurry around as he asks for them to prepare incense and linens. Malve, in particular, is flustered when he asks her to retrieve the casket. She attempts to say something, but he cuts her off with a wave of the hand and a short, “I can’t.”

 

“Draco?” Harry steps into his room. He turns away when he sees Draco putting on ceremonial robes. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

 

He huffs. “I have to stand vigil for the next twenty-four hours. Some whisky would be fucking fantastic.”

 

Harry runs out of the room and returns with a decanter. He pours the glass with hands that won’t stay steady. Draco walks up beside him and takes it. The liquid sloshes around, but he downs one glass, then another.

 

“Anything else? Do I need to greet guests or—”

 

“Guests?” He barks a laugh. “There won’t be any guests. You and I are probably the last people in this world who cared for her, aside from that blasted house elf.” Another shot of whiskey down. “This is something I have to do alone.”

 

When the body arrives, Harry is unsure what to do. He doesn’t know these rituals and is so unsure of how to handle even himself that he opens the door and lets the house elves take care of everything.

 

Harry retreats to his room, crawls beneath the covers, and cries for everything that Narcissa meant to him. His fingers clutch at the sheets and he’s screaming when Tovo enters the room. She tries to calm him, but he yells at her to leave. In her absence, he burrows deeper in his grief and lets it swallow him whole. He feels his parents and Sirius and Remus and Tonks. He feels Dumbledore and Moody and Hedwig and Fred. It’s not any of those faces that truly breaks him down, though. It’s when he thinks of Snape that he becomes hysterical and loses track of everything but trying to breathe. Professor Snape who spent countless hours sneering at him and throwing jeers at him. Professor Snape who tried to help his mother. Professor Snape who, inadvertently, helped him defeat… _No. Not now. Too much_.

 

Between the sheets and beneath the cover, Harry cries for them all, but tonight, he also cries for _her._


	25. Chapter 25

Draco can feel the tension in the manor when she arrives. The elves are withdrawn and subdued. It is Malve’s duty as Narcissa’s bonded elf to perform the death rites. She takes great care to prepare the body in the funeral chamber. First, she washes her with herbs and scented oils. Then, she wraps her in linens of the finest quality. Once shrouded, Draco and Malve follow in procession to the crypt, where Malve lays the body in state.

 

As head of house, it then becomes Draco’s duty to stand vigil. Malve leaves him after several hours, placing a preservation spell on the body and walking down the long cavern. Beneath flickering candles stands Draco. His hands rest on a cane, which is more for support in the latter hours of vigil than for any sort of show. His robes hang low over his eyes, disrupting his view of the body.

 

More than once, he looks up at her, only to look sharply away. He wipes away the stray tears that work their way out, but manages to withdraw his emotions for more physical concerns. By the time he hits twelve hours, his back is aching from the hard stone and his knees are beginning to burn. He’s only halfway done.

 

Draco reverts to his childhood training of mind over matter and begins reciting the meanings of runes. After some time, he realizes this trivializes his vigil and is ashamed. Instead, he recalls memories of his mother. He remembers Narcissa reading to him as a child. He remembers her waiting for him on the platform after his first term at Hogwarts. Early Christmases. Gifts that were more than scholarly. Her reassurances during the war that she would love him no matter what he did—that even if he couldn’t go through with it, she would be proud of him. Her soft smiles at dinner.

 

Before he realizes, Malve is walking back down the cavern to collect Draco. He collapses against her small frame and weeps aloud against her shoulder. She allows this, much as she did when he was a child. After several potions and some food, she encourages Draco back to the Manor for some sleep.  The crypt will be sealed by Malve after Draco is seen to.

 

Draco crawls into bed, seeking the warmth and life of another—it is not his bed Harry wakes up, confused at feeling movement beside him. When he hears sobbing and a muffled, “She’s really gone,” he blinks his own strained eyes and holds the other man close. Together, their drained emotions fail to make some sort of sense out of the world. They fall asleep in each other’s arms having shed much of the hatred and anguish.

 

In the morning, Harry wakes alone. 


	26. Chapter 26

Harry stands beneath the fall of water in his shower and counts the droplets as they fall from his lower lip. Each one is another bit of emotion he’s been carrying around, another pound of misery lifted from ‘round his neck. He’s been clean for nearly twenty minutes, but the scalding water against his flesh feels too much like scarification. As he looks down, he half expects to see trails where each tear has made its way out of his body and to the floor—discarded like some unwanted thing he can’t name.

 

Oddly enough, it’s the steam collecting like dew on his lashes that tugs him out of whatever reverie he’s drifted into. He shakes like a drowning dog and walks out, groping around for his wand to dismiss the water.

 

Before the mirror, Harry takes the time to look at himself—truly _look_ at himself. There are scars inlaid over much older scars. He doesn’t remember most of them. Perhaps he was too drunk on whatever nonsense Ginny was feeding him, but as Harry runs his fingers over them, some of them are entirely new. He’s shocked when he spins and sees that they do not end in places he can reach.

 

“ _How_?” The word is strained, as he’s contorting himself around to try and look at his lower back.

 

He sinks to the ground with the towel clutched in one hand. His left butt cheek ends up on cold tile and he inhales quickly, unmoving. It warms to him after a moment, or perhaps he’s just absorbed the cold. He stares at his hands, which are one of the things left unmarred by his past. Sure, there are a couple of small cuts which have healed over smoothly, but nothing like the rest of his body.

 

Without clothing in the way, Harry’s loudly growling stomach interrupts his contemplation. He sighs, using the little bit of towel he isn’t sitting on to finish wiping away the moisture.

 

He doesn’t much mind which clothes end up on his body; he just feels the need to be dressed. When he looks around his room, his eyes fall on the table by the window; a bulge forms in his throat and he can’t swallow past it. He turns away, fists clenched as he walks to his door.

 

The patio is empty as well. Every door he passes is closed and he doesn’t see a single house elf. Harry is loath to call Tovo, so he waits out on the most frequented patio for nearly a half hour. By that time, he realizes that neither breakfast nor Draco are coming.

 

There is little in the way of quiet as Harry storms back to his room.

 

“Maybe I should go back to Grimmauld,” he says as he paces between the window and bed. “Draco probably doesn’t want me here.”

 

His thumb is twitching and he grips his thigh tightly, trying desperately not to tap, but it’s too much and soon his TAP-TAP matches the unsteady slap-slap of his feet across the wood floor.

 

As he continues to fret, the twitch gets worse. He’s grinding his teeth and gnashing at words like “Voldemort” and “Horcrux.”

 

“He’s told me they aren’t here. I must trust him. It wasn’t _Voldemort’s_ fault Narcissa died.” He shivers, his eyes shocking back in his head as he rolls it around on his creaky neck, then continues. “Maybe it was. Maybe there’s a horcrux here and she took it and they couldn’t stand to be around her. Maybe she _was_ the horcrux. _Oh gods_ , what if she was like me?”

 

Harry falls to his knees. He scrambles madly toward the door, an awkward tango of hands and knees and feet. He’s just trying to make his way toward Draco, who might have answers to his questions.

 

His hand freezes on the knob.

 

There’s a pulse. It’s faint, but he feels it thrum against his hand. Again, he’s scrambling, but this time away from everything he’d been moving toward. Harry cannot get to the corner quickly enough. Once there, he summons the blanket from his bed. He wraps it around him and cries into the cotton, mouth full of soppy white fly-away dreams.

 

Tovo doesn’t check on Harry until lunch. By that point, he’s murmured himself to sleep and lays awkwardly on his side—drool slowly dripping from a mouth that whispers of Voldemort, even in his dreams.

 

++

 

Tovo is unable to rouse Harry. In his semi-conscious state, she’s unsure precisely what course of action to take, so she rushes across the hall to Draco’s room. There, she’s met with an equally disturbing sight. Draco’s anything but sober and has spent the afternoon flinging all his liquor bottles and anything breakable at the walls, furniture—anything solid.

 

She squeaks and disapparates before a vase comes precariously close to hitting her left ear.

 

“Malve!” Tovo calls, her little feet hurrying around the elf quarters.

 

“What you be doing, Tovo?” she responds when her head pokes out.

 

“It’s Mr. Harry Potter sir! I can’t wakes him!” She wails, clutching at the bottom of her frayed dress. “So I went over to Master Draco’s room and he be throwing things all over! Tovo almost died, Tovo did!”

 

Malve steps out from behind her small bed and pats the younger house elf. “You’s all right, Tovo. Let’s go see Mr. Harry Potter and then Master Draco. At least he’s awake, even if he be killin’ things.”

 

Tovo nods and they disapparate to Harry’s room.

 

Once there, it takes both of them to rouse him. They are able to get him in fresh clothes, sitting up in bed. He starts eating a bowl of soup that another elf brings, but pushes it away two-thirds of the way through.

 

“Enough. I can’t do anymore.”

 

“That’s all right, Mr. Harry Potter,” Malve says as she banishes his bowl to the kitchen. “You get some sleep. Malve don’t want to see you in a state like this again.”

 

Harry nods and slips beneath the heavy weight of the blanket. He’s too tired to mind that he’s not wearing a shirt or that he only has one sock on. He doesn’t notice when Tovo and Malve slip away because he’s already asleep.

 

Both elves walk quickly across the hall.

 

“Master Draco? We be coming in now. Please be stopping your throwin’ so you don’t hurt us.” Malve’s voice is gentle, but commanding. She gives Draco five seconds then pushes the door open.

 

It doesn’t matter.

 

Everything in the room that could be broken already has been. Draco lays in the middle of it all with wand in hand and the very last glass of scotch held tenderly between thumb and forefinger. He stares at the brown liquid as it swirls around.

 

“D’ya know that glass hurts when you fall on it?” Draco holds up his hand and Tovo squeaks. Malve just shakes her head.

 

“Young folk. Know so much and so little.” Malve steps forward, takes his wand with little more than a weak gasp of protest, and snaps her fingers. In her other hand, shards of glass begin to worm their way out of his palm, fingers, wrist, and forearm. He screws up his nose and looks like he’ll vomit. “Not yet!” She snaps again and Draco’s mouth is spelled shut. He panics and claws at his lips, opening an old scab there. “Done.”

 

Down his arm are trickles of red, but the skin is intact. He’s panting now and pointing frantically at his mouth. He leans forward and begins to reach for Malve when she sighs and snaps.

 

Draco promptly empties his stomach over the rug.

 

“Filthy child,” Malve says once he’s done. “Mistress would be ashamed.”

 

This gets his attention. He goes to grab for his wand, to utter some horrifying hex, but she stands with hands on hips, _his_ wand clutched in her fingers.

 

“Is you looking for this?”

 

He sits back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and spluttering. “Fuck you. What the hell do you think you know about my mother? What do know about what she thinks? _Would_ think. Have thought.” He pauses to consider his words. “Fuck. I’m going to be sick again.”

 

Malve grabs him and disapparates them both to the bathroom, shoving his head over the toilet. When he sits back again, she stares hard at him.

 

“Is you done this time?” She can hear Tovo chuckle from outside the door.

 

“Fuck off, the lot of you.”

 

“That’ll be a yes, then.”

 

She moves toward him then, calling for Tovo to help. With one on either side of him, they drag his unwilling, yet unresisting body into the bath.

 

“When was the last time you bathed yourself, Master Draco?” Malve asks.

 

His eyes roll back a little, but even his sneer doesn’t hold its normal weight. “Day before,” he looks at her intensely for a moment, “—it happened.”

 

“No wonder you reek.” Tovo giggles again and Malve slaps her. She goes quiet and helps Malve remove his clothing then begin scrubbing.

 

Once Draco’s skin is freshly pinked by the vigorous hands of Malve and Tovo, they levitate him to bed and command his obedience in staying there.

 

“Is Master Draco going to work tomorrow?”

 

For just a fraction of a second, he looks like he’ll be ill again. “No,” is all they get before he tugs the sheets over his head and disappears. Malve tries one more time, but his only response is, “Fuck no. Go away,” so they do.

 

Over the next week, a pattern emerges. The elves take food to Draco in his room, forcing him out of bed so they can change the linens. Once he eats, they remove the dishes and then the fight for his bath begins. After he’s clean (because they always succeed), he dives back into bed and isn’t seen until the next meal.

 

There are stacks of parchment cluttering his office along with frustrated owls who must return with either unopened letters or no response. Kingsley calls on the Floo several times a day, but the elves give vague excuses of illness or dire family circumstances that need tending. When friends or coworkers call, Draco turns them away without explanation.

 

After a while, the elves stop asking, afraid for what he might do in retaliation.

 

++

 

Sleep drowns Harry for the first time in a while and he tosses fitfully in bed. He doesn’t wake when the door opens, nor does he stir when a drunken body fumbles into his bed. All he knows is the warmth of another person and the comfort of a hand at his back. _He’s missed this._

 

When fingers reach into his pajamas and try to grab hold of his cock, Harry kicks out and rolls toward the wall, taking the blanket with him and shooting a spell off in haste.

 

“Ow, that hurts, you fucker,” comes the sloppy voice from above him.

 

Harry peeks around his blanket-shield. “Draco?”

 

“Yes, it’s me. Why the fuck did you hex me?”

 

Harry is aghast. “ _Why?_ ” his voice drops. “You’re asking me _why_ I hexed you when you’re sneaking into my bed trying to—to—I don’t know what you’re trying to do!”

 

Draco’s rubbing at his arm where the hex continues to throb and mumbling something Harry can’t hear.

 

“What?”

 

“I said you’re an idiot fucking wanker. No better than Blaise.”

 

“Why bring him into this?” Harry asks. “I don’t have any idea what happened between you two, but I am _not_ him, Draco.”

 

Draco’s scowl is clumsy and sad.

 

“Get out of my room, Draco.” Harry stands, his wand pointed at Draco, but it’s wavering. He’s trying desperately not to stare at the man who’s lying in his bed in only a pair of pants and sporting an obvious erection.

 

“You don’t want me to leave.” He looks affronted.

 

“I said get out.” Harry’s words are less sure this time, but he waves his wand again toward Draco.

 

Draco throws his legs over the bed, grabs his cock for good measure and lets out an exaggerated groan. “Your loss, Potter.”

 

Harry waits until he’s out of the room to crawl back in bed and hide beneath the blanket, trying his best to ignore his own throbbing cock.


	27. Chapter 27

Tovo shows up to his room, eyes red. She’s wiping them on her sack-dress as she enters.

 

“Mr. Harry Potter, sir. What does you be wanting for dinner?”

 

“Why are you asking me, Tovo?” Harry cocks his head at the little elf.

 

“Master Draco says to ask Harry and that’s what this elf does.”

 

“Why would he do that? That doesn’t make any sense. Maybe you should—”

 

“NO!” The word squeaks out of her so fast, she’s covering her mouth with both hands and reeling backward. “Oh, no. Tovo didn’t mean it, Mr. Harry Potter, sir. She didn’t. She promises.” She’s crying now and the closer Harry gets, the faster she tries to run backward. When Harry reaches out for her, she flails, falls on her bum, and cries in earnest.

 

“Tovo?” Harry asks as he kneels in front of her. “Why are you so upset? I’ve never seen you like this.”

 

She wipes at her face, but does not look him in the eye. “Master Draco tried to free Malve. He gave her—he gave her a hat!”

 

“Tried to free her? Forgive me, Tovo—” here, he has to wait for her to start breathing again, “but how does one fail to free a house elf?”

 

Tovo is still wiping at her face, but tries to respond through her sniffles. When she does, she beams up at him. “Malve does not take Mistress’s hat. No, she gives it back and tells Master Draco that he has to deal with us. We are his elves and we are here to stay.” She puffs out her chest at the last.

 

“I’m sure he took that well.” Tovo’s face contorts into something like fear.

 

“Master Draco doesn’t want us?” She leans forward toward Harry. “You must choose dinner Mr. Harry Potter, sir! Master Draco says so! We must be good house elves so that Master Draco does not try to free any more of us!” She is desperate, creeping closer, but not enough to touch him. “Please, Mr. Harry Potter, sir.”

 

“Make whatever you like to eat. Or cook. Or… whatever. Just—whatever you have on hand.” Harry’s satisfied with himself, but she looks unsure as she retreats.

Harry waits until he’s sure Tovo’s out of range, then storms across the hall to Draco’s room.

 

“What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?” he hollers as he pushes the doors open.

 

“Right now, or in five minutes?” comes Draco’s voice from beneath the slovenly sheets.

 

“Your room smells foul. When was the last time you took a bath, Malfoy?”

 

“Malfoy, is it?”

 

“Fuck off, Draco.”

 

“I was trying to.”

 

“You’re disgusting.” Harry shudders as he reaches for the blanket to pull it back, revealing the sandy mop of hair. “You are filthy.” He drops the fabric pinched between his fingers. “Can you _please_ tell me why I have a house elf crying in my room about picking what’s for dinner?”

 

Hands on his hips, Harry looks every bit the angry partner rather than the disgruntled roommate. Draco huffs and tries to dive back beneath the blanket.

 

“I don’t fucking think so,” Harry starts. “Answer me, you twat. It’s bad enough that I’ll need to shower after this. Why the fuck are you trying to free them?”

 

“I don’t need them,” he croaks. “They were hers.”

 

Harry sighs and sits on the edge of the bed. “Draco, you’ve got to deal with this. You can’t just burn or break everything that reminds you of her. You can’t get rid of the pain that easily.”

 

“Don’t I fucking know it. You’re still here.” Draco’s face pops out of the sheets to glare at him.

 

“I can leave, if that’s what you want.” Harry moves to go, but Draco’s wrist grabs his own.

 

“Don’t.” The word is small, much like the man slumped beside him.

 

“Then get up off your arse and take a fucking _shower_.” Harry yanks his arm free and leaves the room, making sure to leave the doors open for circulation.


	28. Chapter 28

Tucked into the largest of the library chairs, Harry ignores the Floo in favor of continuing his current reading choice.

 

“Probably Theo again,” he mutters as he flips the page.

 

“Ah-hem.” A squat, broad-faced elf walks into the room and stands in front of Harry.

 

“Can I help you?”

 

“There’s a call for you, Mr. Harry Potter.”

 

“Do you know who it is?” Harry puts a spare bit of parchment in the book to hold his place and sets it aside.

 

“Mr. Ron Weasley, sir.”

 

“Oh. All right then.” He stands and follows the elf, whose wobbling stride keeps Harry surging back and forth so as not to step on him.

 

Harry’s waved in to the sitting room, where Ron’s face greets him from the fireplace.

 

“Hello Harry!” Ron’s overenthusiastic grin catches and soon, Harry’s smiling in return.

 

“Hello, Ron. How are you? Hermione? The kids?”

 

“Whoa, whoa. Give me a minute to take it all in.” He chuckles, but clears his throat. “I’m good, mate. Things are good. Hermione is… Hermione.” At this, he splutters in laughter and Harry can’t help but let out a snort.

 

“Rose and Hugo?”

 

“Larger than life, mate. You can’t begin to imagine how life changes when you have kids. It’s like… they’re like miniature tornadoes running through your life, but they’re so incredibly amazing. Hugo’s rolling over and Rose never stops talking. Hermione reads to her every night.”

 

“Of course she does. Let me guess— _Hogwarts: A History._ ” Ron and Harry say the book title at the exact same time and they guffaw out loud, leaning back to hold their bellies.

 

“Harry, can I come through for a few minutes?”

 

“I don’t see why not. Draco hasn’t come out of his room for a week now.” Harry moves out of the way.

 

Once through, Ron shakes off his robe and looks to Harry. “That’s sort of why I’m here.” At Harry’s baffled expression, Ron continues. “Look, mate. He hasn’t been to work in over a week. We get it. Shacklebolt gets it. But he’s got to respond to an owl or two. We have to know when he’s planning to come back.” Ron scratches at the back of his neck, trying to figure out how to word the next bit. “He’s got open investigations that need his attention and… if he doesn’t come back soon, I think Shacklebolt’s going to assign them elsewhere.”

 

“Elsewhere?” Harry asks. “What does that even mean?”

 

“It means exactly what you think it does. He’s going to be demoted without the change in title. He’ll get shite cases because his ferrety arse isn’t at his desk.”

 

Harry gapes for a moment, sitting back on the couch in a huff. “They can’t do that, can they? I mean he just lost his mum.”

 

“I know. Believe me, I know. I’ve been carrying his workload and Hermione’s not too happy at the moment.”

 

“I didn’t know.” Harry’s face falls. He’s wriggling his fingers, twining them together, then harshly tugging them apart. “What am I supposed to do? He won’t even come out of his room.”

 

Ron moves toward Harry, who stands in response. He reaches a hand out and places it on Harry’s shoulder. “If you care about him—if you care about him at all, you’ll help him. He helped you when you needed it. He needs this. He needs _you_ now. Figure it out, Harry. He doesn’t have much left to lose.”

 

Ron’s mouth quirks in a sad approximation of a smile. He squeezes Harry’s shoulder, then turns back toward the Floo. Before he tosses the powder in, he turns back.

 

“I miss you. We need to get together soon. I think Rose would enjoy a visit.”

 

“What?” Harry looks up, catching the worried look on Ron’s face. “Oh, yeah. Soon.”

 

Ron’s shoulders sag, but he calls out his Floo address, letting the flames take him away.

 

He barely notices when a letter lands at his feet. The owl, however, is quite persistent. The envelope has a familiar crest and Harry grimaces.

 

_Mr. Potter,_

_It would please me greatly if you would consider accepting a recently vacated post for Defense Against the Dark Arts. Do think it over._

_Headmistress,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

 

He replaces the letter in the envelope and sticks it in the book he’s reading. “There’s no response,” he tells the owl, giving her a scratch and sending her on her way. He’s not sure there ever will be.


	29. Chapter 29

The raven settles before him, landing on the book he’s just set aside. Harry looks askance at the patronus and waits.

 

“Potter. You have a follow-up at St. Mungo’s in two hours. I’ll find you. Be ready.”

 

He watches the bird take flight and vanish through the wall. “I guess he wasn’t expecting a reply, then.”

 

Harry shakes his head. Reaching for the wand beside him, he casts a _Tempus_. “At two.” He taps his lip in thought and heads to his room. “Guess I’d better get cleaned up.”

 

When Draco shows up to his room, Harry is freshly-showered and in clean clothes. Harry notices the stain on Draco’s robes and the tired lines around his eyes. He doesn’t press.

 

“Ready?”

 

“Yes.”

 

The Floo powder lights up the fireplace and Draco calls out, “St. Mungo’s.”

 

Harry goes through first and waits for Draco. After he brushes the soot from his trousers, Draco leads him to the fourth floor.

 

“Mr. Malfoy, it’s good to see you again.” A bright young healer looks up at Draco from the other side of the healer station and he smiles curtly.

 

“Yes. I’ve brought Harry Potter for his follow-up.”

 

“Oh, let me see.” She studies the list before lighting up. “Oh yes! Mr. Potter will be in room two if you would like to go in and have a seat?”

 

Draco nods, then ushers Harry to the second room on the left. He closes the door and takes a seat in the corner.

 

The quiet doesn’t last long as a thin, sharp healer enters the room with a wheezing voice. “Hello, Mr. Potter. How are you doing today?”

 

Harry looks from the healer to Draco as if he can hide, but Draco raises and eyebrow and laughs. “I’m, uh, fine, thanks.”

 

“Good, good. I’m Healer Lunz. Please have a seat.”

 

As she gets closer, Harry smells the sour smell of cigarettes and sweat. He tries not to gag, but is having a difficult time when Healer Lunz raises her arms to cast a diagnostic spell. Harry shrinks back and she appraises him.

 

“Still some aftereffects from the spell, I take it?”

 

“Yes.” His answer is short, but he hopes it’s clear.

 

“Just a couple more to go.” Healer Lunz’s fingers are thin and shrew-like and Harry wonders how she can truly grip the thick wand she holds. Harry shakes his head softly and looks down at his knees. “There we go.”

 

“Am I done?”

 

“Let’s talk for a minute, Mr. Potter.” She steps back and turns to Draco. “Can you please step outside?”

 

Draco huffs, but leaves.

 

Harry’s thumb taps absently against the metal table and his eyes start moving from the healer to the door.

 

“You were hit with a right nasty spell. Botched, too, from what I’m told.”

 

Harry nods.

 

“You’ve recovered remarkably, but it seems as if you still have some lingering… shall we say, psychoses, to work through?” She’s writing as she says this, so she doesn’t see Harry purse his lips or grip the edge of the bed. “All things aside, you are free to live on your own unless you are experiencing any thoughts of self harm. Are we feeling any thoughts of self-harm, Mr. Potter?”

 

Harry thinks hard about the question. He remembers the incident when he’d arrived at the Manor and how long it’s been since he’s thought that way. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. He shakes his head.

 

“Anything to add?” The healer lifts Harry’s shirt and Harry tries to tug it back down. “Mr. Potter, I need to examine you fully.” At his insistence, Harry lets go of the fabric. “I see we have some scarring that isn’t mentioned in the reports. So I’ll ask again. Anything to add?”

 

Harry clenches his jaw and his eyes go tight.

 

“Do we need to be worried about your choice in companionship, Mr. Potter?” Harry’s eyes snap to hers and his tapping stills.

 

“ _What_?”

 

She nods toward the doorway. “I realize he’s an Auror _now_ , but certainly there is someone else you could stay with?”

 

Harry blanches and isn’t sure what to say.

 

“All right then. We are all free to make our own choices.” She makes some notes, then looks up at him. “It seems as if you are free to go, Mr. Potter.”

 

“Thank you, Healer Lunz.” His words are clipped, but he jumps off the table and runs to the door.

 

Draco walks quickly to catch up with him. It’s not until he’s at the Floo that Draco tugs on his shoulder.

 

“Everything _perfect_ , then?”

 

“Sorry, Draco.” Harry looks away. “I’d just like to get back home—or to the Manor, I guess.”

 

Draco catches the slip and ignores it, going for the Floo powder instead. He tosses it in quickly and walks in before Harry has a chance to see the expression on his face.

 

As they emerge from the fireplace back at the Manor, Harry spins on Draco. He’s shaking and breathing quickly.

 

“Draco, I—” Harry starts, but he’s unsure how to continue. His fists are balled at his sides and Draco’s staring, so he closes his eyes to breathe. “I can’t go back.”

 

“Back where?” Draco’s face is pulled taut.

 

“To Grimmauld. I can’t go back there.” Harry’s shoulders slump as if the weight he’s been carrying is shed and gone. “I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

 

Draco takes off his robe, tosses it on a nearby cushion. “What do you want me to do about it?” Harry isn’t sure how to respond; the anger is new.

 

“I want to sell it.” The words come out so quickly, they surprise Harry and Draco both. “There’s too many memories there. I—I need it gone.” He’s lost in thoughts of Sirius—how they’d both nearly been taken by that house. Draco’s voice brings him out of it.

 

“Okay, so sell it.” A soft wave of Draco’s hand dismisses the entire thing as if it’s nothing—absolutely nothing.

 

“You’re okay with it?” Harry sits now; it’s more of a collapse, really.

 

“Why would I care about that shit hole? It never meant anything to me.”

 

“ _Oh_.” Harry laughs softly. “Well, I thought since you’re technically a Black and it was their house…” He lets the words drift into the ether. Neither reels reel them back in.

 

“Once you sell Grimmauld, then what?”

 

“I was hoping I could stay here, at least for now.”

 

“Stay if you want.” Draco grabs his robes and vanishes upstairs, leaving a slightly bewildered Harry in his wake.


	30. Chapter 30

Several days pass and meals are mostly eaten in silence. Draco’s picking apart a piece of toast in order to avoid looking across the table and Harry shoves the last rasher in his mouth.

 

“Master Draco?”

 

Stewing in their own thoughts, neither heard the elf approach. “What is it?”

 

“An owl, Master Draco.” He holds out a letter, the very edge crumpled a little. He cringes as if he’s expecting admonishment. Draco takes the letter. He reads it, tears it in half. The elf jumps in response.

 

“Send it back.”

 

“Like this?” he questions, taking the pieces out of Draco’s fingers.

 

“Obviously.” The word is drawn out, irritated and the elf bows as he retreats.

 

“Who was it from?” Harry asks, hoping Draco might answer.

 

“Shacklebolt.”

 

“You need to answer him, Draco.”

 

“No, I don’t.” His tone tells Harry there’s nothing more to the conversation, but Harry doesn’t listen.

 

“But you do. You’ve been moping around here like you are the only one who’s suffering. The elves lost her too. I—”

 

Draco jumps up from his chair. “Don’t you fucking _DARE_ to tell me that you’ve lost her! You barely _knew_ her!” He throws his napkin down, palms firmly planted on the table’s surface. “What could she possibly have meant to _you_ , Potter?”

 

Harry clears his throat and waits for Draco’s breathing to even out a bit. “She is the closest thing I’ve had to a mother besides Molly Weasley and her, I had to share with the entire Weasley family. Narcissa saved my life— _twice_! She means more to me than you’ll ever know, Draco.”

 

This diffuses Draco. He opens his jaw, works it out to the side, then closes it. After a deep breath, Draco sits. There’s a moment where everything is quiet and all they do is observe each other from across the table, as if the greatest chess game ever played is being decided in the next sentence.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Draco retorts. “None of it matters. She’s gone. Nothing you can do will bring her back.”

 

Harry bites his lower lip hard. His thumb is tapping wildly against the table now and Draco lifts his eyes slowly before attempting to speak.

 

“If you don’t stop this instant, I wi—”

 

“But what if I could?”

 

“Could _what_ , Potter?” Harry can hear the fatigue in Draco’s voice.

 

“What-if-I-can-bring-her-back?” The words are out of his mouth so quickly they are more of a jumble than a string of coherent syllables.

 

“What the fuck did you just say?” He’s looking at Harry like a deer caught in headlights—unable to move, but wanting to flee with everything in his power.

 

“I said,” Harry starts, taking a deep breath, “what if I could bring her back?”

 

Draco’s eyes go hard and his jaw clenches. Everything about him resembles a fine diamond: hard angles gleaming brilliantly in the diffused morning light. “This is not something to be saying lightly.” Draco’s hands grip the edge of the table now, muscles popping out in his forearms as he grips, adjusts, and grips again.

 

“Do you trust me?”

 

Now Draco is truly caught off-guard. He stares openly at Harry. “What is that supposed to mean?”

 

“Exactly what I asked, Draco.” Harry stands, moving to where Draco sits. “Do you trust me?” His voice is softer now, a tone of sorrow lacing his anxiety.

 

“No.”

 

It’s a flat answer, and one that Harry is expecting, but it still upsets him. He moves to turn away, but Draco’s hand grabs his wrist to stop him mid-step. “But what do I have to lose?” Harry lets out a half-breath, a ghost of a smile playing over his lips before it disappears. “What do you have in mind?”

 

“Stand up.”

 

Draco lifts himself out of the chair to stand beside Harry. “Hold on.”

 

The familiar lurch of disapparition has Draco gripping Harry’s forearm tightly. They land in soft footing, feet sinking so that Harry goes down to one knee to find his balance.

 

“Are you going to tell me where we are?”

 

“Give me a minute,” Harry says, looking down into the sand. His fingers plunge through, remembering the last time he was here.

 

“Potter?”

 

“What?” Harry shakes his head, uses one finger to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose and looks up to see Draco staring at him in anticipation.

 

“I’ve said your name three times now.”

 

“Oh.” He wipes his hands on trousers that are no longer clean. The image is somewhat satisfying for this place and he smiles. “Right.”

 

Harry stumbles upright. The sand gives way beneath his bare feet, but he continues as if he doesn’t notice, as if it doesn’t matter. Draco sighs and follows.

 

“You could at least tell me why you’ve brought me out to Merlin knows where,” Draco says, but the words are more to himself than to Harry, so Harry doesn’t answer.

 

Instead, Harry keeps walking. He knows this path well. Just to his right is the hook in the path and he veers left. His toes wriggle in the warm earth, trudging on—until he’s there.

 

Draco runs into him, hands coming up to balance them both. “Why they hell did you stop? You could have at least warned me.”

 

Harry doesn’t answer. He can’t. His throat is closing and his palms are sweating and he’s rubbing them up and down his hips as if he can get the stains off—stains that aren’t there, but are somehow _always there_.

 

“Potter, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Draco moves to walk around him, but stops.

 

In front of Harry is a round stone grave marker. Carved there are the words, ‘HERE LIES DOBBY, A FREE ELF’ in uneven handwriting. Draco looks between the stone and Harry for a moment, wondering what his old house elf could have to do with his mother, why Harry’s brought him here, when he sees Harry shudder.

 

“I’m sorry, Dobby. I’m so sorry.” Harry’s kneeling in front of the stone, moving sand away from the base. “I haven’t been by in so long. I’m so sorry.” His hands continue to shake, but he clears the debris.

 

Draco watches what looks like a practiced ritual. He stands to the side while Harry maneuvers sand from each side of the stone. It isn’t until Harry starts whispering to himself, pulling a knife from his pocket that Draco feels something is entirely out of the ordinary. His feet are moving, but he doesn’t quite reach Harry’s hand before the blade gouges Harry’s palm.

 

“What the fuck?” Draco tears the knife away, holding it mid-air while drops of blood fall to clot in the sand near Harry’s toes.

 

Harry ignores this. Instead, he moves his hand to the base of the stone and continues his whispering, which sounds more like a chant now. “I’m sorry, Dobby,” is all Draco hears before unseen runes glow from beneath the words ‘HERE LIES DOBBY.’ Harry’s crying as he reaches his fingers into a hollow section of the marker, cleverly hidden by the runes.

 

When he pulls back, Harry clutches something tight to his chest. Eyes closed, the last of his tears falling, he offers his hand—palm down—to Draco.

 

“What the fuck is it?” Draco asks, a bit of fear creeping into his voice.  Harry lifts his hand just a little toward Draco. “You really think I’m going to take that without any explanation? You’re mad!”

 

Draco steps back, but Harry sighs and drops his hand, fingering a much smaller stone.

 

“Do you know what this is?”

 

Draco leans in; shakes his head no.

 

“This is the resurrection stone.” Harry rolls it around in his fingers before snorting sharply. “It was given to me once. Dumbledore knew I would need it in the fight with Voldemort. He knew I had to die.” Draco is openly staring between Harry and the Deathly Hallow he’s holding. “I didn’t use it, you know.”

 

“Then how—”

 

“That’s a story for another day, Draco.” Harry smiles sadly. “What I can tell you is that this stone does not bring people back to life.” Draco’s face falls. The anticipation of something he didn’t know he’d wanted is lost. “What it did for me was let me see them—my parents.”

 

It hits Draco then how desperate he is to see his mother again.

 

“Draco, you realize you can’t keep it. You have to know that this happens once, then they’re gone.”

 

Draco looks from the stone up to Harry with wide, hopeful eyes. “I understand.”

 

“You don’t. Maybe tomorrow you will, because there’s not a chance you can begin to understand right now.” Harry is solemn as the stone passes from one orphan to another. “She’ll find you. Listen closely.”

 

Draco’s chest heaves as Harry walks away. The stone rests in his open palm and he’s unsure what he’s supposed to do. He closes his fingers around it and thinks of his mother. At first, images of her vigil come unbidden but Draco pushes them aside. He remembers her light laughter the morning she left. He remembers her smile; the way her fingers ran along her cheek where he’d kissed her. He’s smiling as tears drop into the sand, cleansing Harry’s blood.

 

That’s when he hears her.

 

“Draco, my love.”

 

“Mother?” Light grey eyes flash open and whirl around, looking for her.

 

“Oh, Draco. What are you doing on the ground? Don’t you know Malfoys are too proud to be on their knees?”

 

“For you, mother, I’d beg on my knees to anyone.”

 

“I know, Draco. I know.” The weight of her words is immense and he leans forward to clutch at the sand, scrabbling when he almost drops the stone.

 

“Mother?” he screeches, thinking she’s gone.

 

“I’m here, little dragon. Life is too short for petty things you know. You did your part; mourning the dead shows weakness and you’ve been a selfish, foolish boy, Draco.”

 

“What do you mean? Tell me how to fix it?”

 

He waits; there is no response but the breaking of the ocean against the jetty.

 

“Mother?” Draco cries, forehead sinking to meet his hands.

 

“He’s good for you, Draco. Don’t lose what’s right in front of you. I love you, little dragon.”

 

The last words come to him softly, as if he’s listening to a thousand-mile dream through a conch shell. Tears fall to join his runny nose; he wipes at both with hands covered in sand and soon he’s trying to clear sand from his watering eyes.

 

“ _Fuck_. Fuck this. I can’t. Why can’t…”

 

Harry walks up behind Draco after hearing him cry out. He calls for Draco, but can only sit back and watch as the other man claws his emotions into the earth. When Draco turns around, all Harry can do is stare; he knows the pain of having his parents right in front of him, only to face losing them all over again. At the empty look in Draco’s eyes, Harry moves forward and takes the resurrection stone out of his open hand, putting it back in marker and sealing the runes.

 

When he turns around again, Draco sits on his heels with palms upward and chin to his chest. “Draco, would you like to go home?”

 

Draco can only nod softly, mouth still open. Harry crouches down and wraps his arms gently around Draco’s shoulders. Just as he lets his lips press gently against Draco’s temple, he lets the tug of apparition whisk them away.


	31. Chapter 31

Draco disappears. He doesn’t come to breakfast and Harry doesn’t hear him slip to or from his room.

 

It’s afternoon when Ron Floo calls Harry again at Kingsley’s insistence.

 

Before he disconnects the call, Ron sighs. “Look, Harry…” He scratches at his neck, his anxious gesture. “Hermione and I are worried about you. We’re worried about you getting wrapped up in whatever’s happening with Malfoy. Just—if you need anything. You know you can trust us, yeah?”

 

Once he’s gone, Harry slides to the floor with nothing to catch him but the couch at his back. With arms wrapped around his knees, Harry drops his chin and closes his eyes. Breathing becomes the most important thing while he tries desperately to re-center his world.

 

Every muscle in his body clenches; he pulls so tightly to himself that he’s afraid of tearing something loose. Instead, he finds that his fingers are numb and the indents on his arms where they’ve been clutching are already a violent shade of red. Another breath. Another. Harry uses the couch for support, sinking his palm deep into the cushion before lifting his weight upward.

 

“You can do this, Harry.”

 

He nods. It’s a simple thing—a nod, but it gives him the confidence to move his feet one at a time until he’s at the bottom of the landing. There, he directs one up until he can grip the banister and tug. The other follows and before his brain catches up, he’s half-way there.

 

“Don’t stop,” he mumbles, using rote memory to keep the feet and legs and hands and arms moving without thinking. Thinking scares him.

 

Attaining the landing, Harry turns as if he’s heading toward Draco’s room. His body lurches along the hall, toes knuckling and dragging like a corpse, but he doesn’t stop until the door looms in front of him.

 

“Okay, Harry,” he breathes. “We ca—” A noise from within makes him stumble back a step. “Can’t. We can’t.”

 

He turns around and flees to the security of his own room, not stopping until his door is closed and he’s sitting at the top of his bed. He’s rocking slightly, one chewed nail in his mouth, but he’s talking to himself around it as if the conversation is incredibly important. It’s important to be heard and not just thought.

 

“You need to. You need to go in there and help him.” He bites too deeply and draws blood, hissing before shaking the hand and starting on another nail. “He needs it. It’s that simple. He helped you. You help him. You can do this.”

 

Determined, he puts both hands flat on the blanket and scoots to the edge. When a clatter comes from across the hall, he scurries back.

 

“ _Tomorrow_. You can do this tomorrow.” Harry nods and pulls the blanket back, lying there until Tovo brings him a tray with dinner.

 

++

 

The following morning, Harry paces in front of Draco’s door until his feet ache. He ends up throwing his hands in the air and grabbing for the handle when he hears Draco vomiting.

 

“At least you’re in the bathroom,” Harry mumbles as he wades through the piles of clothing tossed everywhere.

 

“Unngh,” is the only response he gets. When Harry peeks around the corner of the bathroom door, he quirks a brow to see Draco’s head resting on the toilet seat.

 

“Lovely.” He steps back out, calling for Tovo.

 

She appears, but shakes her head at the room. “Does Mr. Harry Potter, sir be needing anything?”

 

“Yes. Can you please help me clean up this room?”

 

She looks at him, aghast. “Help? You want me to help… you?” A short finger points at him.

 

“Yes, that’s what I asked.”

 

“Absolutely not. Tovo will not help Mr. Harry Potter, sir. Tovo cleans. Mr. Harry Potter, sir does not.”

 

Harry rolls his eyes, but at the angry look he receives, he clears his throat. “Yes, Tovo. That will be fine.”

 

Walking back to the bathroom, Harry casts a freshening charm on Draco, hoping to expel some of the excess odor. It helps a little.

 

As the magic tingles across his skin, Draco turns his head. “You’re still here?”

 

“Yes. You told me not to leave, remember?” Harry looks as if he’ll jump out the nearest window at his earliest convenience, but Tovo shoots a _Scourgify_ toward Draco, who lifts a hand in mock salute.

 

“Well,” he pauses, searching behind him for something, fingernails scraping the tile. “Ah, here it is.” Draco brings a bottle to his lips and takes a long pull.

 

“Are you kidding me?”

 

“Oh,” he tilts the bottle toward Harry. “You want some?” The bottle nearly falls before it slides down his thigh to clink against the floor.

 

“No. You’re not having any more, either.” Harry grabs it, draining it in the sink.

 

Draco attempts to stop him, but slumps back against the toilet. “Fuck.”

 

“Sounds about right.” He steps in front of the drunkard. “You are going to sober up. That means no more of this.” Harry shakes the empty bottle, then vanishes it.

 

“What the hell, Potter?” Draco tries to grab it out of the air, but only lands himself face flat at Harry’s feet.

 

“Your boss has been trying to reach you for the last week.”

 

“He can sod off,” is what Draco says, or at least that’s what Harry can gather, as he speaks the words to Harry’s toes.

 

“No. You are going back to work.”

 

“Why?” Draco rolls over, dry-heaving.

 

Harry is trying not to vomit himself, covering his mouth until the blond finishes. “You’re going back to work because it’s what you do. You worked hard for it and now your boss is going to take away all your cases because you can’t get off your arse to answer his Floo call.”

 

“Can’t.”

 

“Yes you can. You’re just too damned drunk to try.”

 

“Pre- _ci_ -sely.” He emphasizes the middle syllable with a flick of his index finger.

 

“Fuck off, Draco. You’re sobering up.”

 

“Fuck _you,_ Potter.” Draco struggles to sit again, but manages. “I don’t know who you think appointed you my keeper, but it wasn’t me.” He pauses, looks like he’s contemplating something, but continues. “You have no control over whether or not I keep drink—” The word is lost as fluid belches forth from Draco’s stomach. There isn’t much, but what’s left ends up down his shirt.

 

Harry stares in disgust. “Yeah. Want to keep talking about drinking?” He spins on the spot and walks out the door, leaving Draco on the bathroom floor.

 

In an effort at being covert, Harry attempts to catch Draco asleep for his second try. The Malfoy heir is not sleeping in his bed; instead, he’s lounging on a chaise by the window with a brand new bottle of alcohol wrapped in his arms.

 

Harry waltzes past the sleeping man, grabs the bottle, and chucks it out the open window.

 

“Where the bloody hell are you getting all this alcohol from?”

 

Draco startles, but stretches out, running a hand down his chest. “I’m beautiful enough that they lavish it on me.” He purrs the last few words and Harry snorts.

 

“Ungh. No.”

 

He then walks around the room and gathers every container he can find, banishing them all. Harry easily ignores Draco’s outburst—mainly because he falls off the chaise trying to yell at him.

 

Storming out of Draco’s room, Harry bristles as he thunders down the stairs and into the elves’ quarters.

 

“Elves! All of you. I need all of you!”

 

He waits a few minutes for the word to spread.

 

“I need you all to do a sweep of the Manor,” he commands. “Get rid of any alcohol you find.”

 

“But you is not master!” calls a voice from his left.

 

“You do as Mr. Harry Potter says,” comes Malve’s stern voice.

 

The other elves cower a little, with a few practiced “Yes, missus” responses.

 

Harry nods to Malve. “Any elf found getting him alcohol or helping him to get alcohol will be punished—by me.”

 

Some of them gasp, but he turns heel and walks out before they can say anything. Malve tuts and sends them out to search the Manor immediately.


	32. Chapter 32

“Oh. My. Gods. What are you doing to me?” Draco’s whine hasn’t stopped since morning and Harry is trying to be patient.

 

“I’m getting the poison out of your system.”

 

“It feels like you’re burning me alive.” At present, Draco’s clothing is infused with sweat. He’s thrown all the sheets off the bed entirely and is lying spread-eagle, trying to cool down.

 

“Drink some water.”

 

“I don’t want any water.”

 

“Please drink some water.”

 

This back and forth has repeated itself several times and Harry has the next bit memorized.

 

“ _If you want the water drunk that badly, drink it yourself!_ ”

 

“ _I am not the one sweating profusely, Draco_.”

 

“ _Oh god. Is there no air in here? Do a cooling charm, Potter. I’m dying._ ”

 

“ _You’re not dying, Draco._ ”

 

He shakes out of the memory. The cool rag in his hand reminds him that Draco truly is desperate here. Moving over to the table, he dips it into cool water, wringing it between his hands before hovering over Draco.

 

“Hold still.”

 

“Like I can move.”

 

“Just hold still, okay?” Harry uses the rag to wipe the sweat off, cooling Draco down a little. “Any better?”

 

“No.” The pout is a bit silly, so Harry tries to ignore it.

 

They sit in silence until lunch arrives. Tovo’s been instructed to bring tea and toast for breakfast and lunch; Draco might be up for soup by dinner. Draco takes one look at the toast and rolls his eyes. He grabs the plate and starts shoving it in his mouth.

 

“I wouldn’t do that—” Harry’s up and next to the bed, but it’s too late. “Okay then.”

 

Twenty minutes later, Draco’s curled in a ball clutching his stomach. “Why did you let me do that?” He’s groaning and trying to sway, in hopes of moving things through his stomach.

 

“I tried to tell you. You haven’t eaten real food for a while.” Harry’s lopsided smile is weak.

 

Late in the evening when Draco’s tossed himself across the bed and requested his sheets again, Harry tries to leave for the bathroom.

 

“Who’s out there?”

 

“Draco?” Harry says softly. “Go back to sleep.”

 

“Father?”

 

He steps closer to the bed, one hand on Draco’s arm. “Draco. It’s me, Harry. Go back to sleep. You need rest.” The back of Harry’s hand slides across Draco’s forehead to check for a fever. He’s warm, but not overly so.

 

“Father, I thought I’d lost you.”

 

Harry reels back. He clutches his hand as if it’s burned, rubbing the back in soothing circles.

 

“I knew you’d come back. I didn’t think you’d abandon us.” Draco smiles. It’s the smile of a child—a young child who’s not yet been ruined by the world. “Have you seen mother?” Draco looks around. “Where is she? Mother! Mother! Mother, where are you?”

 

Harry steps forward again and places a hand on Draco’s. “It’s all right, Draco. She’s fine. Go back to sleep.” The words are difficult, but he manages.

 

“Okay.” Draco is asleep before he finishes.

 

Harry just makes it to the bathroom before his chest heaves in great, silent sobs.

 

An hour later, Draco cries out at the pain in his stomach and Harry is pulled from sleep where he drifted on the chaise. Harry waits to see if it will subside, but when it doesn’t, he makes his way over and sits on the edge of the bed. He tries the cold rag, but Draco shoves it away. He offers water, but Draco spits it out.

 

“I’m not sure what I can do for you right now, Draco. It’s just going to hurt for a while.”

 

There is no response. All he gets is a hand tightly gripping his own. So, he sits; there on the edge of the bed, Harry sits with his legs dangling and left calf tucked beneath, falling asleep, but he doesn’t dare move. Draco holds his hand until he slips back to sleep. It’s only then, in the early hours of morning, that Harry thinks to slide off the sheets and stumble back to the chaise, where he curls up into a ball to wait.

 

++

 

“Shit.”

 

The buzzing in Harry’s ears turns vulgar as the word registers. He sits up and runs a hand through his hair.

 

“What are you still doing here? Get out, Potter!” Draco’s dramatic arm flails toward the door.

 

“I’m not leaving,” Harry says, voice still rough from sleep.

 

“You are _going_ to leave.”

 

“No.” Harry stands. “What’s your problem this morning?”

 

“Did you happen to dump a gallon of water on me last night during your antics?”

 

Harry looks concerned. “No.”

 

Draco pulls the covers tightly around his chin. “Then fuck off, Potter.” He sinks lower. “Please?”

 

Harry stares.

 

“Fine! I’ve bloody pissed myself, all right! Is that what you wanted to hear?” He throws the blanket aside. “Now get Malve!”

 

“The house elves have been instructed to ignore you until tomorrow.”

 

“What?” Draco’s voice breaks. His wide, blinking eyes resemble those of an owl and Harry is suddenly struck with how much he misses Hedwig.

 

Harry clears his throat. “Ah, yes. So you’d better get out of bed so I can change the sheets.”

 

Looking completely mortified, Draco scoots out and hurries toward the bathroom. He doesn’t pass up muttering a quick, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me” as he scurries by.

 

It doesn’t take long for Harry to strip the bed and maneuver clean sheets onto the mattress. By the time he’s tugging the duvet back over top, Draco emerges. He’s dressed in a pair of pajama pants and a loose shirt, but Harry tries to avoid watching for too long.

 

“Well?”

 

Looking up, he sees Draco stiffen. “Well what?” Harry asks.

 

“Well, aren’t you going to say anything?”

 

Harry straightens, thinking for a moment before speaking. “I’m not sure what you think I have to say to you Draco. How about breakfast?”

 

Leaving Draco staring open-mouthed, Harry walks out the door and down the stairs to find Malve. She’s darning a sweater when he finds her, a bit surprised when he ducks through the door.

 

“Good morning, Malve.”

 

Jumping to her feet, she pats down her dress and nods to him. “Mr. Harry Potter. What can we be doing for you?”

 

“How about breakfast?”

 

“Yes! We would love to make sir breakfast.”

 

He smiles, informing her that, “It’ll be for Draco and me.” A thought occurs to him and he tilts his head. “I didn’t ask him where he wanted to eat.”

 

“Malve will ask. You go and get cleaned up, Mr. Harry Potter. Tovo will come find you when all’s ready.”

 

She pushes him out the door with urgent hands and demanding calls to other elves. As he walks out into the hall, he can hear her making all sorts of fuss. Harry laughs before heading back to his room for a shower.

 

Tovo’s familiar face greets him once he’s had a chance to get dressed. She tugs on his wrist and indicates he should follow.

 

“Mr. Harry Potter, sir hasn’t seen this part of the grounds. Tovo knows this for a fact! Tovo thinks Mr. Harry Potter, sir will love it.”

 

“I’m sure I will.”

 

She leads him out one of the patio doors he knows well, but continues farther past the bricks. To his surprise, she turns a sharp corner around a set of hedges and he’s greeted with rows of flowers in every configuration. Some are blooming and those, he stops to admire. Others are still shrouded in green cocoons, which he thumbs as he walks past.

 

Once, Tovo reaches out and slaps his hand away. “Mr. Harry Potter, sir does _NOT_ touch the Venemous Tentacula!”

 

He holds both hands up to show her he has the message and they continue walking. As the rows break left and right, there is a small grass circle which houses a bench and table. The slick blond hair of Draco is easy enough to pick out, but it’s the sight of waffles surrounded by various toppings that has him breaking into a brisk jog.

 

“Oh, Tovo. This looks delightful!”

 

“Yes, Potter. It’s nice to see you too.”

 

“Shut it.” Harry makes a face for a moment before turning back to Tovo. “Can you please tell Malve that I appreciate all the effort that went into this?”

 

Tovo nods, then seeing Harry sit down to eat, disapparates.

 

They fill and empty their plates twice, eating in silence. Once Harry’s belly is full and he can sit back to rub it in pure joy, he looks to Draco.

 

“Why did you choose here, of all places, to eat?”

 

Draco’s fork grinds against his plate through the syrup. “It reminds me of my mother.”

 

“Oh,” is all Harry thinks to say at the moment.

 

“This was her favorite place. She planted every flower in here.” Draco looks around, then continues, “She wouldn’t let a single house elf touch a bulb or use a watering spell. She did it all herself.” He stabs the last bite of his waffle, chewing sullenly.

 

“It’s lovely.”

 

Draco nods.

 

“I want to ask you something. It’s… something you mentioned earlier.”

 

He wipes his mouth, replacing the napkin on his lap. “Very well.”

 

“Tell me about Blaise.”

 

“You do like to hit a man hard early in the morning, don’t you?” Draco chews the air for a moment before taking a drink and setting his glass down gently. “What is it, exactly, that you want to know?”

 

“Anything? Who was he to you? Were you—together?”

 

“Blaise is complicated. He was… he was the closest I’d ever come to calling someone more than a lover.”

 

Harry isn’t sure how to respond.

 

“Is that what you wanted? Anything else you want to know about him? Did you want to know that he gave the best rim jobs or that he preferred to top? Did you want to know that he sang the most beautiful Italian arias in the morning? What about his job? Did you know that Unspeakables are required to lie to their partners about the cases they work on? Not just omit details, but outright lie?” Here, his voice escalates and his hands are shaking. “How about him telling me he loved me when he was engaged to a woman—someone we both knew. Someone he was happily fucking at the same time.”

 

Draco’s body shrinks back against the bench and Harry shakes his head sadly. “I’m sorry, Draco. I didn’t mean—”

 

“I’m sure you didn’t.”

 

Just beyond their little cove, Harry spots something large and white shimmying toward them. He perks up, straining to see.

 

“Draco?” He’s ignored. “Draco, what is that?” Harry points. Draco turns around and snorts softly, some of the tension leaving them.

 

“Peacock. There are dozens of them.” One side of his mouth lifts in a sad approximation of a smile. “Mother used to say she wanted a pet. Father purchased a breeding pair of albino peacocks for her. It became sort of a joke—she said they reminded her of him.” He drops his fork to the table. “Honestly, they remind me more of her.”

 

Harry’s turned to look at the approaching bird and doesn’t catch the first few tears as Draco wipes them away. When Harry turns back to see why he’d gone silent, Harry closes his eyes and leans forward, placing a hand over Draco’s.

 

“Is there anything I can do?”

 

Draco yanks his hand back, dropping it to his lap. “Unless you can bring my mother back, then no—there’s nothing.”

 

Silence returns as the peacock reaches the table, attempting to search Harry’s hair for some unknown insect. He swats it away, no longer in the mood for company.


	33. Chapter 33

It isn’t until later that evening that Harry sees Draco enter his rooms with Auror robes slung across his forearm. He’s muttering something, but Harry can’t quite make it out. The door closes and Harry retreats to his bedroom, leaving his own door slightly ajar; a custom he’s grown used to with all the elves coming and going.

 

On the brink of sleep, Harry’s startled upright. He hears screaming, but takes a minute to be sure it’s not in his head. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. “Not you,” he tells himself. “You’re all right.” The scream comes again. “Fuck.”

 

He’s out of bed with wand in hand. “ _Lumos.”_

 

The soft glow gives just enough light to avoid tripping over a carelessly tossed shoe. He gropes for the wall— _there it is again_. A shudder passes over him, crawls down his spine and wedges itself firmly between his shoulder blades. He’s having difficulty breathing. Each inhale seems more difficult because of the damned weight on his chest. His left hand moves up to rub it, trembling as he continues to near the door.

 

“No! _Please_ don’t!” Draco’s voice screeches from across the hall and for a fraction, Harry’s feet are stuck, unable to move despite his urging. He’s having flashbacks of spells flying and people he’d known falling to the ground. “I’m begging you, please.” There’s whimpering now.

 

He limbs are freed. Harry surges into the hall, a tangle of hands and feet and bobbing wand light. Once sorted, he’s able to open Draco’s door and throw up a shield charm. However, there’s nothing to shield himself from—only Draco writhing in bed. He’s sweating and clutching at the sheets and Harry can only stare.

 

“Why would you do this? You _promised_!” Draco’s frightened. He curls into a ball and starts crying. He holds his knees to his chest and buries his nose between them.

 

“Draco?” The name sounds foreign on his tongue. It sticks to the back of his front teeth.

 

There’s no indication he’s heard.

 

“Draco?” He says it a bit more forcefully, hoping this time his emphasis gets the last syllable out clearly, well past his lips. Still—nothing. “Draco, wake up.”

 

Harry steps forward, left hand extended and places it tentatively on Draco’s shoulder. Draco recoils and his eyes flash open.

 

“Are you okay?” Harry asks, more afraid of the answer than he’ll admit.

 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Draco scoots up in bed, running a hand through his hair. When he feels the sweat coating his forehead, he licks his lower lip and stares hard at Harry. “Well?” he questions, a hard glare now in place.

 

“You were—you were screaming.”

 

“And that means you can come barging into my room? Get out.”

 

Harry’s in shock, so he doesn’t say anything. He also doesn’t move to go.

 

“Did you hear me, or are you deaf? Get the _fuck_ out!” Draco points straight at his door then crosses his arms.

 

Harry jolts from his stupor, leaving before he can truly comprehend what just happened.

 

This continues and each night Harry wakes Draco before being ordered out of the room. By the fourth night, Harry refuses to leave.

 

“I said I wanted you out.”

 

“And I told you I’m not going anywhere.” Harry sits down on the foot of Draco’s bed, causing the blond to tuck his legs beneath him.

 

“Why are you being so bloody difficult, Potter?”

 

“Because it’s in my nature, apparently,” Harry says wryly. “Now are you going to tell me why you’ve up and decided to scream your lungs out every night?” Harry’s fiddling with a worn spot on the duvet and Draco slaps his hand.

 

“Don’t make it any worse.” Draco huffs and leans back, purposely ignoring the question.

 

Harry waits.

 

“Fine. I’m alone, okay?”

 

“What do you mean?” Now Harry’s tucked a hand in the crook of his knee, digging his thumb in repeatedly to some rhythm even he doesn’t know.

 

The sigh that follows is almost weary enough to be called dramatic, but Harry stays steady in his concern.

 

“I’ve always been afraid of being alone. There was a time when I was young that both of my parents went out of the country for several months.” He looks down at the open hands in his lap. “I think it started there. During the war, when You-Know—”

 

“Use his name.”

 

Draco’s vulnerable when he looks at Harry. “Voldemort—when Voldemort wanted me to kill Dumbledore, the last thing I wanted was to be without them again.” He clenches his hands into fists, opening and closing them a few times. “After that, with father…” He’s on the edge of crying. Draco takes a steady breath and continues, “Mother was the only person I had left. Now I’m alone.” He wipes a few tears from his eye, pointedly not looking across the bed.

 

Harry doesn’t say anything for a while. They sit and listen to the steady rhythm of their own breathing. “It’s okay, you know.”

 

Draco’s misty eyes meet his.

 

“It’s okay to be alone.”

 

He scoffs and pushes both Harry and his intentions aside. “I’d like to get back to sleep now.”

 

Harry nods, slipping off the bed and exiting the room. He leaves the door ajar just enough for light to slip through.

 

The following night, Draco’s screams continue. Harry makes his way across the hall to find Draco facing away from him. He shakes Draco awake, looks for the comprehension that Draco realizes who he’s seeing.

 

The _Lumos_ he cast before entering shows a glean to Draco’s face, but it’s not from sweat. He’s crying. Harry reaches up and wipes away a tear that wells up.

 

“I have them, too, you know.”

 

Harry moves to get in bed next to Draco, who stiffens, then scoots over. They lay next to one another in the still of night and feel the uneven breathing, the shaky rhythms of each other’s hearts as they try to relax into sleep.

 

It’s a peaceful night. In the morning, Harry wakes and goes about his routine. They form a pattern of sorts for a few nights with Harry showing up when the screaming starts until, finally, Harry shows up at Draco’s door before he’s even had a chance to lay his head down.

 

“Perhaps we should just head it off before it happens?”

 

Draco stares at him. Perhaps he doesn’t want to acknowledge anything before the moon is firmly above them, but he pulls the covers back and turns away.

 

“Don’t snore,” is all Harry gets before Draco’s breathing evens out.


	34. Chapter 34

Curled up in a chair at the far reaches of the library, Harry is having a hard time concentrating. It’s nearing three in the afternoon and he’s not sure what to do with himself. When his stomach starts growling, an idea comes to him and he hurries down to the kitchens.

 

“Tovo!” he hollers, hoping that she’s the right elf to call.

 

“Yes, Mr. Harry Potter, sir?” She seems a bit startled by his sudden beckoning.

 

“Tovo. Can you help me get everything together to make dinner?”

 

“Mr. Harry Potter, sir wants to cook?” She blanches and steps backward, gripping the leg of a nearby table.

 

“Yes!” Harry says enthusiastically. “I’ve done it before. It’s been a while, but it shouldn’t be problem.”

 

His mind is already assessing the kitchen and its various implements. It’s a wizarding kitchen, much like the one at Grimmauld Place. “Okay, show me where all the pots and pans are and I should be good to go.” He looks to Tovo, who’s now shrunken fully into a corner. “Are you going to help me—or do I need to call for Malve?”

 

“Malve?” She squeaks out the name. “Oh, Mr. Harry Potter, sir shouldn’t call Malve for this.” She turns to the side and hits her forehead repeatedly against the table.

 

“Stop it. Why don’t you want me to call her?”

 

“She would kill Tovo for letting Mr. Harry Potter, sir mess up her kitchen.” The hopeful light in her eyes is pitiful and Harry can’t help but laugh.

 

“Never you mind. Just help me.” He’s already moving around like a whirlwind, looking for various sizes of pots and baking dishes.

 

After nearly three hours of chaos, Harry has a presentable roast with a side of vegetables ready on the dining table. He’s setting out something to drink when Draco stumbles through the door—but he’s not alone.

 

The two men are entangled in one another’s outer robes, fumbling to get as close to each other as possible. Draco’s leaning forward to bite the ear of the shorter man and a moan slips out. The other man spots Harry and pushes Draco back. He smiles lazily and licks at the man’s jaw.

 

“Harry, meet Matthew. Matthew, meet Harry, my—” he hesitates, “—roommate.”

 

Harry’s cheeks are burning and he sets the glass down a bit harshly. Tovo glares from beside Harry and shakes out a napkin rather roughly before folding it and placing it neatly beside the roast.

 

“Making dinner? How thoughtful. Hope you enjoy it!” Draco’s words slur a little, but the point comes across crystal clear.

 

Then Draco’s tugging Matthew away while the latter gives Harry a look of pity. Harry turns away in shame before Matthew chases Draco down the hall.

 

“Mr. Harry Potter, sir?” Tovo offers as a small kindness.

 

“It’s fine, Tovo.” Harry steps away from the table. “Please, ask the other elves to join you and eat the roast.”

 

Tovo gasps, but remains where she is as Harry walks away.

 

It’s difficult to walk past Draco’s door, knowing he’d normally be headed there in a few hours for a restful sleep. Instead, he turns right. His old room greets him as a daunting demon. It embraces him in cold arms and an even colder chill. Harry is unable to sleep for most of the night.

 

When he does, he’s woken by screams from across the hall. _Apparently Matthew’s left for the night_ , Harry thinks. Resolutely, he slips from his bed and tugs the blanket with him. He crawls into the corner and wraps the blanket tightly around legs and arms that refuse to stay warm. As the screams continue, Harry throws up a silencing charm to block out the pain.

 

The next couple of days are spent in his room. He doesn’t go down to breakfast, nor does he sneak out to the library. He moves listlessly across the room from his chaise by the window to the corner, then back again. Occasionally, he tries to sleep. Most of the time, he fails.

 

Harry allows himself the pleasure of breakfast with Tovo after much begging on her part. Surrounded by the chatter of birds and watching a nearby peacock, Harry doesn’t notice at first when Draco arrives.

 

Tovo looks between them, but only disappears to bring Draco a plate. He nods and begins eating. They don’t talk.

 

It stuns Harry that Draco is the first to cave when the food is running out. “What the fuck _is_ this?” He gestures between them.

 

“I’m sorry?” Harry blinks rapidly to try and digest everything—both the food he’s attempting to swallow and the question.

 

“ _This_ , Potter. What is it?”

 

“I-I don’t know.”

 

Draco’s lips thin and Harry’s afraid of the response coming, so he interjects, “I’ll leave if you want me to.” His head drops; his fork drags through the last of his eggs.

 

Across the table, Draco stares at him, intense but confused.

 

“I’m beginning to wonder if you want to leave.” Draco says, deadpan. At Harry’s hurt look, Draco sighs and says, “No.” Almost strained, he follows with, “Stay.”

 

Draco gets up and swiftly leaves. Harry does nothing but watch as he goes.

 

++

 

When Draco comes home after work, Harry is wedged back in his favorite chair in the library.

 

“Have you eaten?”

 

The platinum locks hanging mid-air around the corner of the door shock Harry.

 

“Um, no?”

 

“Get ready to go out.”

 

Harry doesn’t move when Draco leaves. He’s puzzled by the entire exchange, so he stays put to mull it over. In five minutes’ time, when Draco returns—this time his body accompanying his head—Harry just fidgets.

 

“Coming, Potter?”

 

Harry scrambles to get dressed and meets Draco outside his room. Without much notice, Draco grabs hold of his left arm and disapparates them.

 

Before him is a city street much like London’s working district. Harry looks back and forth, but Draco’s already walking off, so he hurries to catch up. When Draco holds open a door to a restaurant, Harry’s puzzled look makes Draco chuckle softly.

 

“In, Potter.” Harry complies.

 

Their waiter approaches the table with a suggestion for wine pairings. Draco listens, but declines. “Harry?”

 

“Oh, no. Thank you.” He waves it off and goes back to studying the menu.

 

“You didn’t have to. It’s me you need to worry about. You can still indulge.”

 

“It’s fine.” Harry says curtly. “I shouldn’t either.”

 

Dinner consists of steak, grilled asparagus, and some form of sweet potato Harry’s unfamiliar with. Everything is savory and he allows each bite to rest in his mouth long enough to remember the flavor before devouring it.

 

“Enjoying yourself?” Draco asks, one side of his mouth lifting as if he knows the answer, but doesn’t want to give it away.

 

Harry shrugs. “I’m not sure why you brought me here.”

 

“You needed to get out. Eat something other than Malve’s favorites.” Draco’s laughing at him, he’s sure of it.

 

“I enjoy Malve’s cooking.”

 

“As do I, but I can only have pasta so often. That elf would make anyone want to destroy the whole of Italy for even suggesting some good Bolognese.”

 

Harry’s eyes crinkle a little and soon he’s laughing. “She does make a little too much pasta.”

 

Draco opens his mouth as if to say something, but closes it, smiling instead. They finish their meal with light conversation about plans for the week and Draco’s recent cases. After paying, Draco offers Harry an arm. He’s not sure if Draco plans to disapparate them right there, so he takes it. Draco escorts them out of the restaurant and back to the apparition point.

 

“Will you join me upstairs for a little while?” Draco asks.

 

“Okay,” Harry replies quietly, and follows him up the stairs and into his suite.

 

Harry stands around listlessly while Draco tosses his robe aside. Unsure where to look or what to do with himself, Harry fiddles with the edge of his jumper. Draco unbuttons the top few buttons of his shirt, then drops down onto a loveseat. He pats the cushion next to him.

 

“Come sit, Harry.”

 

Draco’s head relaxes against the back of the loveseat, one arm stretched out behind him. As Harry sits, he feels the cushion dip and settle. His thumb is tapping rather loudly and it’s echoing in the room. He tries to stop when Draco looks over, but it only speeds up. Harry smiles apologetically. This is when Draco moves closer, sidling next to Harry. He places a hand over Harry’s to still the movement. Harry’s thumb is trapped, so his mind races ahead. He’s never done this before. _Oh gods_. He can feel his heart in his toes because his fingers are trapped and they’re going numb beneath Draco’s touch.

 

Draco’s other hand reaches up to trace Harry’s jaw. Harry stops breathing as Draco runs the tip of a finger along his bottom lip, only removed when Draco leans forward for a kiss.

 

Harry panics, reaching up to brace both palms against Draco’s arms. Too many sensations. It’s too much to think about He’s _not ready_. Draco waits, lets him breathe, and he relaxes into the touch. Draco’s lips are soft and smooth, yet insistent. He slants his head just right so that their noses don’t crash into each other and their chins don’t scrape. Harry thinks through each movement as if he’s creating a manual for later, but he should be focusing on—Draco’s tongue laps Harry’s bottom lip and he gasps. Draco takes advantage, joining their tongues in a soft embrace before retreating. One last, chaste kiss is all he takes before he pulls away, lays his head on Harry’s chest, and turns to watch the fire.

 

Why did he stop? Did he do something wrong? Harry contemplates every move again as Draco’s soft snores vibrate through his chest and the crackle of the fire mocks him from across the room.


	35. Chapter 35

A hazy warmth spreads over the room as Harry sleeps. Draco stirs from sleep and runs his fingers up the inside of Harry’s thigh. He can feel the resulting pulse, notices the widening of Harry’s knees. Draco continues his soft exploration. His fingertips run the length of Harry’s leg from kneecap to juncture of thigh and groin. He lets them linger against the edge of Harry’s cock, pressing roughly before moving away.

 

Harry groans, rolling his hip at the loss. He feels Draco’s hand slip beneath his jumper and run up his side, slithering back and forth on the way back down. His eyes are closed as the sensations take over. Just when he feels like Draco cannot fire any more nerve endings, he grasps Harry’s cock through his trousers.

 

“ _Fuck_ , Draco.”

 

Draco’s response is to wrap a leg around Harry’s and rut, allowing him to feel his own erection. Harry lifts his head and looks down—runs his fingers through Draco’s hair and tightens.

 

“We should move,” Draco says before biting Harry’s thigh.

 

Harry is trying to contemplate this. Everything is new. The touches, the feelings—the body parts. He doesn’t have much time before Draco’s up and pulling Harry’s hands toward the bed. They tumble-fall onto the mattress together, Draco shoving the duvet out of the way as they wriggle toward the pillows. When they can reach one another easily, Harry swallows his thoughts and takes initiative. He kisses Draco, a soft kiss that asks permission rather than begs forgiveness.

 

Draco commands more. His legs pull Harry closer and they are trying to get more-enough- _now_.

 

“I’m guessing you’ve never been with a man before?”

 

The question freezes Harry. “No.” He looks over his shoulder. “I-is that a problem?”

 

Draco licks Harry’s bottom lip, tugs it between his teeth and sucks on it. He releases it with a wet pop. “No. I’ll make it easier on you. Just—it’s been a while since I’ve bottomed. Take your time.”

 

Harry’s confused. “You mean, you want—”

 

“I want you to fuck me.”

 

Draco’s playing with his neck and attempting to kiss him. Harry breathes into the kiss so he’s breathless when he’s situated between Draco’s thighs. Draco helps him by taking his shirt off, followed by his trousers. He’s not wearing pants. Harry stares down at him long enough to realize he’s still got his own clothes on. By the time he’s down to his socks, Draco’s lazily stroking his cock with a grin. Harry stumbles, nearly falling when he catches Draco watching him.

 

His climb back into the bed is anything but graceful, but he’s back where he started.

 

“You have done this part before, yes?” Draco reaches out a hand to cup Harry’s cheek.

 

Harry nods, thinking that the basics are the same, even if some of the parts are not. He watches Draco’s body curve and clench and relax. He’s mesmerized.

 

“All yours, then.” Draco throws his arms behind his head, waiting expectantly.

 

“Right,” Harry says, more to himself than the naked man beneath him.

 

“ _Accio_ lube,” Draco calls out. The bedside drawer rattles, then slides open to allow a small white jar to follow Draco’s command. “Here.” He shoves the jar into Harry’s hand and resumes his position.

 

Harry unscrews the lid and liberally coats his index finger. This, he lowers to Draco’s entrance and begins rubbing circles against the muscle there. When he feels the other man relax, he tips the finger down and in, allowing it in to the first knuckle. He rotates it, moves it up and down, then slides forward again. While the resistance is there, he doesn’t see pain or fear on Draco’s face.

 

He spends some time sliding in and out, seeking the release of pressure before adding more lube and stretching Draco with the second finger. This time, Draco winces. Harry waits until his face calms. He gets a nod and an exhale. On the next exhale, Harry pushes forward slowly. He can feel the ring of muscle fighting him a little, so he’s cautious and slow. When he tips his fingers up, he can just feel the edge of something. He’s not sure exactly what he’s looking for, so he doesn’t search until the third finger goes in.

 

This time, Draco’s right hand grips the sheets. His whispered “fuck” is a sure sign that it’s been a while and Harry tentatively reaches his other hand out to Draco’s cock. In his head, it isn’t any different than his own, so he grips it from beneath and begins to stroke upward at the same rhythm his fingers are moving.

 

Draco’s groaning again, chin tilted upward. “Fuck me.”

 

The words startle Harry and he’s not ready for them. He’s concentrating so hard on preparing Draco that he hasn’t thought this far. His fingers slide out to a familiar squeeze. Draco sucks in a breath at the loss and squirms.

 

Harry uses his other hand to lube his cock, bringing himself back to hardness before getting back to his knees. He tries to situate himself, to push in, but his cock softens. He bites his lower lip and pumps his cock again. Once lined up, he rubs the cockhead there and closes his eyes at the sensations. Draco’s pushing back against him and Harry feels himself start to slip in, but he goes soft again.

 

“I don’t-I don’t understand-why isn’t this working?” Harry’s mumbling to himself softly, jerking angrily on his cock. Draco sits up on his elbows to listen. “I’m such an idiot. I can’t even have sex. What the fuck is wrong with me?” Another sharp pull on his cock and Harry whimpers.

 

Draco grabs hold of Harry’s wrists. “Stop.” He pulls them away from Harry’s limp cock. “It’s all right. There’s nothing wrong with you.” He moves the lube out of the way and flips them so Harry is on the bottom. “If you still want this, I can top.”

 

Harry’s looking to the side and Draco doesn’t want to push. He grabs the jar and starts to screw the lid on, but Harry says, “I want it.” Draco waits long enough to be sure Harry isn’t going to change his mind, then sets the lid aside.

 

Draco prepares Harry slow and makes sure he’s comfortable with every step before he continues. When Harry winces or jolts or grips the sheets, Draco backs off until Harry asks for more. The third finger is brutal for him and Draco employs his skilled tongue to keep Harry’s mind off the initial pain. Once he’s relaxed into the sensation, Draco rotates his knuckles, angles his fingertips upward, searches for something until Harry cries out. He rubs it several times then continues to suck his cock as he pulls out.

 

Harry isn’t paying too much attention while Draco lubes his own cock up. It’s when Draco moves atop him that Harry starts to panic a little. Draco grabs the head of his cock and rubs gently at Harry’s entrance.

 

“Are you ready?” Harry nods, teeth clenched. “Breathe, Harry.”

 

When the head pops through, Harry’s hands come up and brace against Draco’s forearms. He starts to cry.

 

“ _Fuck_ , Draco,” he whimpers. “It hurts.”

 

Draco kisses his jaw. “I know.”

 

When his crying worsens as Draco starts to push forward, Draco changes his mind and starts to pull out. Harry’s grip hurts him, then, as he looks up and whispers, “Please?”

 

Draco stares at him for a minute, then starts to move. He’s softer now, so he leans down and kisses Harry, runs his hand up his thigh and pinches his nipple. At Harry’s soft moan, Draco starts to move. Harry holds on to his arms and gasps into his mouth as they move together through the pain and the emerging pleasure. He doesn’t come when Draco does, several minutes later. When Draco pulls out, Harry rolls to his side and curls into a ball.

 

He’s hesitant, but Draco reaches around him and strokes him back to hardness. Soft kisses along his shoulder are a contrast to the thumb twisting and looping over the head of his cock. He’s gasping, toes curling as he comes. They fall asleep with spunk on the sheets and tears staining Harry’s pillow, both unsure what just happened.


	36. Chapter 36

The dining room looms around Harry like a cavern of echoing emptiness. He prefers the tight spaces of the gardens or the familiar surroundings of his rooms, but they, too, are cloying this morning. Tovo’s small hands and pleading are the only things that brought him out of his room. He’d retreated there after waking and taking a shower. Draco sleeps as if dead, or at least pretends to.

 

Harry wonders if maybe Draco didn’t want to think about last night, either.

 

When Draco comes down for breakfast, Harry’s eyes grow wide in shock at his appearance. He’s shirtless, wearing only silk pajama bottoms and in his bare feet. His hair is mussed and as he enters, he runs tired fingers through it, casually tossing it to the side, scrubbing at his face to wake himself.

 

Across the room, Harry cowers in his chair, trying to sink into it as far as he can and become invisible. He wishes his cloak was at hand. Draco notices this and watches from his end of the table.

 

“What got in your porridge this morning, Potter?” His voice isn’t cold, but he’s irritated and Harry attempts to twist farther away.

 

His leg is rapidly thumping the underside of the table. It’s bruising his kneecap, but he doesn’t care—it’s a nice sort of pain that brings him back to the moment, brings him back to the reason he can’t be here.

 

He blushes before he can speak, so his words are soft and stuttered. “I-I’ll go b-back to my own room tonight.” He’s dropped his spoon now in order to hug himself, the thump-thump-thump against the table matching the heartbeat rising in his throat.

 

“The _fuck_ are you talking about?” Draco isn’t awake yet, but he’s narrowed in on Harry’s weakness.

 

“You don’t want to be with me. You don’t want to be with someone who can’t…” The words stop coming. He can’t make them continue to form on his lips when they are traitorous to everything he wants—everything he needs.

 

Draco waits, thinks. “No one is perfect and fuck if I got it right the first time.” He lets out a short bark of a laugh, remembering something he doesn’t share. “You will not be moving out of my room.” The command startles Harry. “We’ll just have to figure it out.”

 

Harry slumps even farther into his chair, which seems impossible, but he finds a way. Draco sighs and walks over to him. He leans down quite far to place a kiss on Harry’s forehead.

 

“It’s fine,” he says. “ _You_ are fine. _We_ are fine.” The emphasis helps to pull tortoise-Harry out of his shell and he sits up a little. “Now. While I am incredibly horny,” said with a thrust of his hips toward Harry’s shoulder, “sex is not the end of the world. We have time.”

 

Harry doesn’t respond; he reaches out to squeeze Draco’s arm and that is enough.

 

Draco smirks down at him and adds, “We will, of course, have to keep trying regularly until we get it right.”

 

Harry turns bright red and slaps Draco’s hip. “Now?” he asks, the word not quite formed as he’s trying to understand thoughts before they all come spilling out. Draco tugs him away from the table with a sly grin and they make their way upstairs.

 

The bedroom is uncomfortable at first, but when Draco kisses Harry and reaches around to his waist, sliding lower to cup his arse, Harry stops thinking. His mind is on the way Draco’s fingers are wriggling their way into his pajamas, sliding them down, revealing his bare skin. He trails all the way down to his toes, which tickle until Harry lifts his feet enough to be freed of the confining clothing.

 

Then Draco moves upward, focusing on his shirt. He grips the bottom hem and tugs, his knuckles dragging across Harry’s chest. He’s burning by the time cool air hits him but then Draco’s warm tongue glides around a nipple—lapping, sucking, biting. Harry reaches, needing something to hold on to, finding Draco’s hair. The white-blond strands are soft, thin, and as he grips them, Draco looks up with a lust-driven “Oh” and dives back down toward Harry’s navel.

 

“Draco, I don’t think I can stand for much longer,” Harry manages, barely a whisper.

 

Draco chuckle is husky, but he pushes Harry back until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. He kneels in between Harry’s legs and runs skilled hands on the outside of his legs. Harry shakes a little. When Draco first takes Harry’s cock in his mouth, Harry’s head lolls back, then snaps forward when Draco drops quickly to suck at the base, swirling his tongue and sucking as he comes back up. One hand gently rolls Harry’s balls, careful not to squeeze too hard. The other accentuates the pressure beneath his mouth, squeezing and pumping as he sucks, swirling around the head of Harry’s cock. It’s when Draco stays at the top, gently bobbing, twisting his hand below his mouth, but swirling his tongue just below the glans that Harry begins to tighten his arse and roll his hips.

 

Draco smiles around the cock in his mouth. He gives Harry a count to ten and just as he hits eight, he feels the build-up in Harry’s balls.

 

“Fuck, Draco, I’m going to—”

 

Harry’s stomach contracts and he’s gripping the sheets in delirium, but Draco swallows everything he gives.

 

After, when he can breathe, Draco slithers up beside him and throws a leg over Harry’s. “Better?”

 

Harry kisses him, surprised at the taste of himself in Draco’s mouth. He is most surprised to find he doesn’t mind it.

 

He feels the soft throb of Draco’s erection on his thigh. “Do you want me to?” Harry asks the question, knowing the answer, but still insecure about the consequences.

 

Draco’s response is neutral. He doesn’t force Harry, but he doesn’t stop him, either. The decision is Harry’s.

 

Gathering his wits and bravery, Harry rolls from beneath Draco. “Will you help me with these?” he asks as he plucks at Draco’s pajama bottoms. Draco grins, thumbing the fabric, lifting his hips, and sliding them off.

 

The cock before him is beautiful. It curves upward just a little. Draco shaves, which Harry hadn’t noticed before. His balls are pulled tight, the skin smooth—much like the rest of him, Harry thinks as he looks him over. There’s only one thing that mars Draco’s beauty and it’s Harry’s fault. He runs his fingers over the _Sectumsempra_ scars, a wistful look on his face. Draco catches his hand and kisses his fingers.

 

“It’s in the past, Harry. Leave it there.”

 

Harry nods, but it’s difficult. He returns to Draco’s hips, tracing the slow arch from waist to thigh. At this, Draco tries not to squirm and fails. Harry smiles. He finds it oddly attractive that Draco is ticklish. His fingers flatten and his palm travels lower toward the base of Draco’s cock. This he’s done before. This he can manage.

 

He grips and strokes. Twists just a little as he’s seen Draco do. Uses his thumb to rub some of the pre-come over the head to ease his way. Harry relaxes as Draco starts to move with him, to react. When Harry leans over to taste him, his tongue darts out quickly, not sure what to expect. Draco’s sharp intake of breath spurs Harry on and he lowers his mouth over more of the head, easing his tongue out to explore. He doesn’t notice when Draco reaches above his head to grip at the bed frame or rolls his eyes back at the overload of sensations. He doesn’t pay any attention when he’s squeezing a bit too hard or, “Merlin’s tits, Harry, too much,” or “Fucking Salazar, I’m going to come” and then it’s happening and Harry’s overwhelmed with the taste and sensation.

 

He doesn’t quite swallow and he doesn’t quite spit it out. It’s a mixture of all the above as he splutters around Draco’s cock, which is shoved down his throat by raised, jerking hips. When Draco’s spent, he collapses to the bed and looks up to see come dribbling down Harry’s chin and it’s the sexiest thing he’s seen.

 

“Fuck that’s hot.”

 

Harry smiles and it’s awkward but endearing.

 

After a _Scourgify_ to help Harry feel somewhat clean, Draco pulls Harry to his side and they try re-learning how to breathe.

 

Harry’s eyes are closed when Draco tells him, “Sex doesn’t have to be difficult, Harry. It’s just us—figuring it out, together.” The kiss to his temple is a staple of reassurance before they fall asleep.

 

++

 

Harry wakes before the sun. He feels the pleasant warmth of Draco at his back and an arm slung across his waist. At his full-body stretch, he knows he’s woken his bed partner.

 

“Morning.”

 

“Sorry to wake you.”

 

“It’s fine.” Draco kisses his neck and idly thumbs his hip. Harry’s foot is rubbing up and down beneath the blanket and the sound travels quickly. “Something wrong?”

 

“No.” He’s not sure if he says the word aloud, so he shakes his head into the pillow. Draco pulls him closer and he can feel the thrum of a morning erection against his arse. “Draco?”

 

Draco’s hand moves to Harry’s hip, moving him in a rhythm that pulls them together in a delicious slide. Harry’s breathing is loud and deep as he bites the inside of his arm. He’s not sure he’s ready. He’s not sure he wants to be, but his body says otherwise.

 

Their clothes end up on the floor and Draco keeps Harry occupied with continued nips to the base of his neck followed by frenzied strokes of his cock. When Draco lifts his left leg and moves it forward, begins to prepare him, Harry’s soft whimper changes quickly. Draco finds his prostate easily in this position and presses down. Harry’s muscles react around him, but Draco swirls in a circle and waits as he relaxes.

 

When he’s ready, Draco pulls his fingers out and oils himself up. It’s a brief moment of emptiness, but Harry feels the loss. Draco’s sure to circle his entrance, to stroke his cock, and get him back in the right headspace before trying to push through. It’s a little easier in this position and Harry doesn’t resist as much.

 

As he slides in, he talks Harry through it. “Breathe. That’s it.” A soft bite to the tendons in his neck to get him to release his muscles there. “Okay now let it out.” Draco starts to slide out and Harry feels himself clench, the odd pushing something he’s not used to yet. “Breathe with me.” Draco angles downward and on the push back in he hits it—Harry’s prostate—and Harry scrambles for something to hold. Draco doesn’t go for long strokes, but together, they rock gently as he bumps into that sweet spot until Harry comes, a soft cry escaping him. Draco follows shortly and they savor the quiet aftermath.


	37. Chapter 37

“I’m going to visit Hogwarts,” Harry declares over breakfast.

 

Draco lowers his paper enough to look over the top. “And?”

 

Harry blanches. “Well, I, um—”

 

“You’re free to do whatever the fuck you want. You don’t need my permission.”

 

Harry doesn’t mention it again.

 

Instead, he Floo calls Neville and sets up a visit for the following afternoon when he has an open class period.

 

The grounds of Hogwarts feel different now. Harry remembers the last time he was here. Things were still being rebuilt and part of the castle lay shattered near the doors to the great hall. He shakes the memory away. Today is different. Today, the castle is whole.

 

He’s greeted by Professor McGonagall. She lets him through the wards and together they walk the familiar path, past the Quidditch pitch and toward the greenhouses.

 

“How are you doing, Mr. Potter?”

 

“Better, Professor. I’m better.” Harry’s hands are in his pockets to hide the fact that he wants to run his sweaty palms up his trousers.

 

“I hear you’ve sold Grimmauld Place?” Her eyes are sharp beneath the spectacles perched at the end of her nose.

 

“Yes, well… There’s not really an Order anymore and… I just couldn’t stay.” Harry is fumbling for words, but she interrupts.

 

“It’s quite all right, Harry. You don’t have to explain it to me. Where are you staying now?”

 

“Draco’s letting me stay at Malfoy Manor. I’m just not sure where to go from here. So much has happened and I—”

 

“No need to get in a fret, dear boy,” she says as she turns to him, stopping in the middle of the path. “You have your entire life to figure it out. In the meantime, if you need something to occupy yourself with, I’m still in need of a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor...”

 

Harry cocks his head. “But—”

 

“Yes. We hired someone, but, regrettably, she didn’t work out.” The twinkle in her eyes is mischievous. Harry smirks.

 

“I’m not sure I can, Professor. Hogwarts is my home, but so much happened here.” He’s tapping inside his pocket, hoping she doesn’t notice. “Defense brings back a lot of memories…”

 

“I know, Harry.” She reaches out a hand to grip his arm gently. “You are always welcome here. You would also be a great asset to this school and her students. Please do think about it?”

 

Harry nods and they continue walking. It isn’t long before they near the greenhouses. Harry sees Neville’s lumbering gait and dirty hands and can’t help but grin.

 

“Neville!”

 

He looks up and runs over to Harry, so excited he doesn’t remember his soil-stained clothes or hands and locks him in a bear-hug. Harry squirms a little, but pats him in return.

 

“It’s good to see you too.”

 

“Harry, mate. It’s been too long!” He steps back to look Harry over, a goofy smile coming and going at the dirt he’s left on Harry’s jumper. “Sorry ‘bout that.” He tries to wipe it off, but ends up leaving more. Neville shrugs; Minerva shakes her head fondly.

 

“This is where I leave you, Mr. Potter.” She smiles to him, then turns on Neville. “Mr. Longbottom.” He blushes as she walks away.

 

Harry turns to Neville with enthusiasm. “Show me around. What are you working on?”

 

Neville takes him to the newly-built greenhouse. In here, he’s housing the new project for plants that are used in healing potions. “An entire greenhouse dedicated to healing plants?” The awe in Harry’s voice reinforces Neville’s pride.

 

“They’re lovely, aren’t they?”

 

Harry can’t answer. The words are lodged in his throat. All he can do is hug his friend while his tears make mud out of the dirt caked on Neville’s robes.

 

“This is going to save lives, Nev.”

 

“That’s the hope.”

 

Harry swipes at his eyes and steps back. “There’s so much to remember here. So much to think about. I didn’t think it’d be this overwhelming.”

 

“Don’t worry, mate. It took me a few months to get used to it, too.” Neville’s reassuring hand at his back helps Harry feel less alone.

 

They head out of the greenhouse and into the afternoon sun. Neville finds a sunny spot beneath a tree and leans against the thick trunk. Harry joins him and they relax for a few minutes before turning the conversation elsewhere.

 

“McGonagall offered me a job.”

 

“I know,” Neville responds, his charming smile in place as he turns to Harry.

 

“You know?”

 

Neville chuckles softly. “That’s why I thought you’d come.”

 

“Oh.” Harry systematically shreds a blade of grass before tossing it away, picking up another. “I don’t know if I can.”

 

Neville’s brows come together. “What do you mean?”

 

“A lot has changed since…” Harry lets the implication sink in and Neville nods.

 

“Yeah, well you’ve got to move beyond that at some point, Harry. This would be a great way to heal. I’m sure Draco would understand. Hannah’s been wonderful.”

 

“What do you mean, Draco would understand?” It’s Harry’s turn to look at Neville in confusion.

 

“Oh, well, with the way Draco talks about you, I wasn’t sure. We’ve gone out for drinks a couple times over lunch—” At Harry’s angry glare, Neville raises his hands and drops in a quick, “don’t worry, mate, he drinks pumpkin juice now—” then continues with, “and he talks about you staying at the Manor, helping with the elves, how you have breakfast every morning. He drones on more about you than he did Blaise and that’s saying something.”

 

Harry’s breath hitches at the last and his fingers jerk the grass in his fingers apart so hard it’s in two. He lets both pieces drop to the ground. Harry realizes he’s blushing and the shaking of his knee is loud as his shoe wriggles in the grass.

 

“Sorry,” Neville jumps in. “It’s not any of my business, Harry.”

 

Harry shakes his head. “No. No, you’re fine. I just—I don’t know.” Harry grips his leg to still his hand and lets out a sigh. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

 

Neville nods and lets it go. When Harry casts a rushed _Tempus_ and says he has to go, Neville doesn’t question it.


	38. Chapter 38

Harry wakes as the sun finds its way into Draco’s room. He eases himself from beneath the other man, watching him sleep for a moment before leaving. After a quick shower and a fresh set of clothes, Harry’s head is in the Floo.

 

“Are you certain, Harry?”

 

“Absolutely. I’m ready.” Harry’s early-morning enthusiasm startles Professor McGonagall. “I’ve thought about it and I need to do something. They need to know. I’m ready now.”

 

Minerva nods. “I’m glad you feel that way. When can we expect you?”

 

“I’m hoping to commute.” Harry looks away. “Like Neville does.”

 

“Ahh I see,” she remarks knowingly. “I will make arrangements.” She’s writing and Harry hears the scratch of her quill. “Can I expect you tomorrow for introductions and orientation?”

 

“Yes, Professor.”

 

He’s nearly skipping as he makes it to breakfast. Draco snorts, but goes back to reading his paper.

 

“Draco?” Harry asks with a mouth full of bacon.

 

“Do finish your food, Harry. It’s impolite to speak with half the pig shoved in your mouth.”

 

He swallows, takes a gulp of juice and smiles. “I’ve accepted a teaching position.” Draco lets the paper drop farther toward the table. “At Hogwarts.” Harry’s beaming now.

 

Draco looks shaken. He gathers himself enough to ask, “When will you be moving out?”

 

It’s Harry’s turn to fall apart a little at the seams. He turns his knife over a few times on the table. “I was hoping to stay and commute.” His words start to drop to the table, but he lifts his shoulders and looks Draco in the eyes. “I can leave as soon as my rooms are ready.”

 

Harry moves to go, but Draco catches him. “I meant it—I want you to stay.” He tugs Harry down for a kiss, made sloppy by the syrup clinging to Harry’s mouth. He licks it away. “Look—I’m not sure how to do—” he looks helpless, but continues, “ _this_.”

 

Harry chokes out a laugh. “Well I’m not, either. I guess we’ll have to muddle through it.”

 

Draco nods, checking his watch for the time. “Damn. I have—” He steals another kiss. “To go—” Another. “To work.” They keep trying to talk in between kisses, but eventually Harry breaks away.

 

“Go to work, Draco.” Draco nods, then reluctantly gets up and leaves.


	39. Chapter 39

“Are you ready?”

 

The question comes at Harry from across the table and he shakes himself from his private thoughts. “I’m sorry,” he answers. “What did you say?”

 

Draco smiles. “Are you ready for today?”

 

“I hope so.” He’s been clutching at the same roll of parchment since he completed the lesson. It’s laid out in a meticulous fashion and all he has to do is follow his own words.

 

TAP-TAP. TAP-TAP.

 

Harry shakes out his fingers, trying to relax. Draco cool hand comes to rest over his own and he pulls the parchment aside.

 

“You’ll be fine.” A glance at his watch and he shifts in his seat. “It’s time, Harry.”

 

They rise from the table together. Draco licks his lips before they meet Harry’s in the gentlest of kisses. “Remember to breathe, love.”

 

Harry nods into his hands and turns to the Floo. Draco rushes to hand him the parchment before he disappears in a whirl of anxiety.

 

Everything is organized on his desk and he’s writing basic principles of defense on the board when his students enter the classroom. He doesn’t acknowledge them at first. His breathing is more important. They mingle and chatter, but eventually find their seats. His wand raises at the chiming of the tower and the door pulls closed.

 

As he spins around, all eyes are focused solely on him.

 

“Welcome to Defense Against the Dark Arts,” Harry begins. “You may call me Professor Potter.”

 

He writes his name on the board and some of them start whispering.

 

“For those of you who don’t know, my _full_ name is Harry Potter. I’m sure you’ve heard a lot about me, but that is not the reason you’re here.” He waits until they quiet down. “This class will be a mixture of lecture and practical lessons. It is my goal to prepare you for anything you might experience both on your O.W.L.s and in the real world.”

 

Harry steps around his desk and sits on the front edge of it.

 

“Before today’s lesson begins, do you have any questions?”

 

Several hands raise, but he chooses to call on a shy boy in the corner whose hand is barely above his shoulder.

 

“Yes? What is your name?”

 

He clears his throat before answering, “William, sir.”

 

“All right, William. What is it you would like to know?” Harry’s sea green eyes smile openly.

 

“What is the most useful spell you know?”

 

“That is a good question, and one I thought I’d address in today’s lesson. Please open Your Standard Book of Spells to page thirty-two. There, you will find a disarming charm—also known as _Expelliarmus_.” Harry writes the charm’s name on the board.

 

He pauses, looking down, then back to his students with a glint of a tear in his eye. “This spell saved my life more than once, so I rather think you should know it.”

 

 

* * *

 

> **“The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen.”**

– _Elisabeth Kubler-Ross_

 


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